Gospel Story Finder

While Sister Carole M. Stephens was driving with her granddaughter, Chloe kept getting out of her seat. She didn’t want to wear a seatbelt! Sister Stephens said she wanted Chloe to wear a seatbelt because she loved her and wanted her to be safe. This time, Chloe stayed in her seat. This is like commandments. Sometimes it may feel like they are holding us back, but God gives them to us because He loves us and wants us to be safe.

An item posted on a local Peterborough Facebook page caught the eye of BBC Radio host Dotty McLeod, who wondered why two young men would offer to provide gardening and household service for free.
At her request, Elder Nathan Kidd and Elder Jarom Beale, of the England Leeds Mission, answered questions live on her breakfast show of 5 October 2020.
Elder Kidd, from the USA, and Elder Beale, from England, serve as missionaries for the Church in Peterborough, their purpose being to share messages of hope that come through faith in Jesus Christ.
Inherent in that faith is serving others as Christ would. The elders shared stories of serving in the community as well as relating how people responded to their offer, which led to delivering food and clothing to those in need, gardening, painting, and lifting heavy items.

I guess Annabelle and I sort of grew up together. I was eleven years old when she died, just a few months ago. Dad didn’t see her one day when he was backing out of the driveway in our van. And I guess Annabelle didn’t see Dad. Not in time, anyway. Dad felt so bad. It was the first time I’d seen him cry since he bore his testimony last year at church and told about how we joined the Church.
I think we were all thinking about that this morning when we buried Annabelle under the plum tree in our backyard. Mom had wrapped Annabelle in some pretty green material, and we put her in the hole Dad had dug in the soft earth. Then we all sat quietly in a circle around the little open grave and thought about our cat. Dad called it paying our last respects.
Sunlight shined into Annabelle’s little grave through the limbs of the plumb tree. Mom said it was as though Heavenly Father was filling it with light to remind us that He is with us in our saddest moments—maybe especially then.
Dad said that we’d always be indebted to Annabelle for directing us in our own, unknowing way to the gospel of Jesus Christ and that just as that hole was filled with light, so our hearts will be, too, as we try in our own way each day to share His living truths with others.
We put some daisies from Mom’s flower garden on Annabelle’s grave, and I made a little picket fence around it out of sticks.
I know we will have other pets. Maybe a dog. Maybe another cat. Or maybe something else. But I’ll probably remember Annabelle the best—and that night on Temple Square.

Two years passed, and changing family circumstances forced me into a profound sadness. My father had left Poland in search of work so our family was divided. I felt desperate, searching for God. My prayers became more sincere, pleading with Heavenly Father to help me find His presence.

One day my mother told me, “Some person by the name of Garling asked for you. I told him to call back next week.” She knew that it was a missionary and wasn’t interested in the message, so she didn’t feel it necessary to respond quickly.

That Friday night I again heard knocking at the door. This time I gave the emissaries a sincere welcome and a smile. “You are welcome in my home, but you need to know I will never become a Mormon,” I told them.

These elders taught me anyway—every Friday afternoon for six months. Loads of my mom’s cookies and thousands of questions later, all my deepest questions began to be answered. It seemed like every time the missionaries visited, another piece of life’s puzzle came together. Intrigued, I finally did what the elders had asked me to do: pray and ask Heavenly Father if their words and the Book of Mormon were true. They assured me that God answers prayers.

As I prayed and studied the scriptures more deeply, these doctrines became sweet to my soul. For months I hesitated, feeling that I needed solid evidence, needed to know everything about the gospel before joining this Church. Finally, the words of the Savior in John 20:29 spoke to my soul: “Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.” I decided to be baptized.

My parents required that I wait until I was an adult to be baptized, but the time waiting helped in my progression and knowledge of the gospel. Sadly, as my baptism date drew closer, I lost confidence in my answer. I got into the things of the world and became fearful that my choice to be baptized wouldn’t be accepted by loved ones.
Little by little, mistakes and decisions made me deaf to the whisperings of the Spirit. My scriptures ended up in the deepest part of my trunk and I even stopped praying.

My life was not turning out—too many tears and disappointments. It was hard to understand why my family had to undergo so many trials. Right before my last year of high school, my parents had to leave Poland. The prospect of relocating again caused me anguish. Finally, I again knelt in prayer, truly meaning my words: “Heavenly Father, Thy will be done, not mine.”

That prayer marked the beginning of my return to the Church, which I knew would require repentance. That Sunday, for the first time in nearly a year, I attended sacrament meeting. The next day I again decided to be baptized.

The Lord helped me through my difficult process of returning to what I had once known to be true. I now define those difficult circumstances as some of the sweetest blessings from God. He did not forget me. He listened to my prayers and waited for me to recognize His answer. He helped me through all the suffering I endured, strengthening and protecting me. In the process I gained greater clarity on the meaning of Christ’s divine mission and His Atonement.

I was baptized in April 2011. My plane has taken off since—I now reside in France, which means more changes. However, I am now grateful to Him for my life and for the circumstances that He had me live through. Because of my testimony of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, I now understand that I am not alone, no matter what destinations life brings next. I don’t know if my plane will take off again. The only thing I do know is that my new destination is that straight path that leads to life eternal with Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.

“I love puddles,” Alice said. “Here, Puppy,” she called. “Let’s play outside in the puddles.”
Alice showed Puppy her rainy-day toy box. “First we’ll play with things that float,” she told Puppy. Alice floated a red rubber band, a blue feather, and a lollipop stick in the puddle. She and Puppy played with the floating things for a long time.
“Now let’s play with things that sink,” Alice said. She took out of her rainy-day toy box a heavy yellow button, a green marble, and a gold key. Alice and Puppy played for a long time with the things that sink.
“Now let’s splash in the puddles,” Alice said to Puppy. Alice and Puppy jumped and splashed in the big puddles. Alice made footprints on the sidewalk. Puppy made paw prints on the sidewalk.
Puppy barked because he was so happy. Alice sang a happy rainy-day song:
“I love raindrops
When they fall
Against my windowpane,
Because I know that
Soon there’ll be
Puddles from the rain.”
Alice and Puppy were very tired at bedtime. But before Alice went to sleep, she knelt beside her bed to say her prayers. “Thank you, Heavenly Father, for sending raindrops,” she whispered. “And thank you for puddles and for Puppy too.”

This story happened in the USA.
Charlotte hated loud noises! She didn’t like the way sounds pounded in her ears or echoed in her head. Even when she knew she was safe, she still felt tense when cars screeched, crowds cheered, or drums boomed.
And Charlotte really did not like fireworks!
Her family tried lots of things to comfort her when there were loud noises. Dad bought her special earmuffs to help block the noise. When there was thunder, Mom snuggled with her under the covers. Charlotte also prayed for help not to be scared.
All of these things helped. But loud noises still made her feel afraid.
“We are going to a special firework show at the park tonight,” Mom told Charlotte. “Do you want to come?”
Charlotte frowned. “But fireworks are so loud.”
“Now that you’re older, fireworks might be more fun to watch,” Mom said. “All of your friends will be there. We can even bring your special earmuffs. Do you think you can give it a try?”
Charlotte sighed. “OK. I guess I’ll try.”
The fireworks show at the park started off perfectly. Charlotte and her friends ran around on the grass, sharing treats and playing games. Soon the sky grew dark. Charlotte sat down and pulled on her earmuffs as she looked nervously at the sky.
BOOM! BOOM! CRACK!
Charlotte’s heart beat faster, and her chest felt tight. She jumped up and tried to get away from the booming all around her.
Mom ran after Charlotte and scooped her up. They sat back down, and Mom hugged her close. Tears fell down Charlotte’s face.
“I’m sorry that scared you,” Mom said. “I’m right here. Let’s focus on the colors so you don’t notice the sound so much. What do you see with your eyes?”
Charlotte took a big breath. “I see gold, and red, and green.”
“Now use your nose,” Mom said. “What do you smell?”
“I can smell the smoke and the grass,” said Charlotte. “And popcorn!”
“What other senses can you use right now?”
Charlotte closed her eyes. “I can feel them. When the fireworks explode, I can feel the shaking in my chest.”
“Can you taste anything?” Mom asked.
Charlotte stuck out her tongue. “l can’t taste the fireworks.” She laughed.
All of this made Charlotte curious. How do people make the different colors? she wondered. Why do fireworks explode? How do they make different shapes? Fireworks didn’t seem so scary now.
“Mom, fireworks are amazing!” Charlotte said.
As Mom tucked Charlotte into bed that night, Charlotte asked, “Why doesn’t Heavenly Father answer my prayers when I ask Him to make the loud noises go away?”
Mom thought for a moment. “Heavenly Father doesn’t always take away scary things,” she said. “But sometimes He helps us see things in a different way or gives us people who help comfort us.”
“Like how He helped me tonight!” said Charlotte.
“That’s right!” Mom smiled. “You went to the firework show even though you were scared. Then Heavenly Father helped you calm your fears. He also helped you see the beauty of the fireworks by using your other senses.”
Charlotte thought of the bright colors in the sky and smiled. She still didn’t like loud noises. They still scared her. But she knew Heavenly Father could always help her to be brave.
“Fear thou not; for I am with thee” (Isaiah 41:10).
Illustration by Adam Howling

Now, some of you may not have a paper waiting for you. It may be a textbook with a math problem hidden in it. Let me tell you about a day in your future. You’ll have a teenage son or daughter who’ll say, “I hate school.” After some careful listening, you’ll find it is not school or even mathematics he or she hates—it’s the feeling of failure.

You’ll correctly discern those feelings, and you’ll be touched; you’ll want to freely give. So you’ll open the text and say, “Let’s look at one of the problems together.” Think of the shock you will feel when you see that the same rowboat is still going downstream in two hours and back in five hours, and the questions are still how fast the current is and how far the boat traveled. You might think, “Well, I’ll make my children feel better by showing them that I can’t do math either.” Let me give you some advice: they will see that as a poor gift.

When I first went to senior high school, there was one thing I struggled with: when a new subject was introduced, I would find it difficult to understand. One evening I prayed to Heavenly Father to help me understand and overcome that challenge. I had faith, and I was able to understand better. Since then, prayer and faith have been on my to-do list in school and everywhere I go. Being in a boys school is challenging because of some of the immoral things students do. When that happens, the words of my parents come to my mind: “Don’t do something that will drive the Holy Ghost away.” I am grateful to my mum, who always reminds me to listen to the Holy Ghost. When we do what is right, God blesses us.
Nyame S., age 16, Ghana

I stood on the step of the train and hugged my father good-bye. “Have a nice time in Wales, Hetty,” he said.
“I will,” I answered, smiling.
The spring of 1910 was one I would never forget. I had been baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints just a short time before, and now I was going on a trip all alone from Bristol, England, to Wales to visit my Aunt Nell.
“Hetty”—Father caught my hand—“don’t forget to say your prayers.”
I squeezed his hand. “I won’t, Father.” But as I turned to go, I added under my breath, “I hope.”
I had a hard time remembering to say my prayers at night. Before the missionaries visited our home, I had sometimes said a little prayer before going to sleep that started, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” But the missionaries taught us that prayer was actually talking to Heavenly Father. I wasn’t used to that—and I wasn’t always sure I had anything important to tell Him. But at Aunt Nell’s house there would be lots to tell Him. I didn’t think that I’d forget there.
That night I didn’t forget. I thanked Heavenly Father that the train hadn’t derailed and that Aunt Nell had been there to meet me. I thanked Him for the lovely green Welsh hills and for the pastures filled with sheep.
The next night was different, though. I spent all day exploring the hills with Aunt Nell. I was so tired at the end of the day that I fell into bed and went right to sleep.
“Oh, dear,” I thought the next morning. “I forgot to say my prayers. Well, I’ll say them tonight.” But we spent all day visiting Aunt Nell’s relatives in the nearby village, and the same thing happened that night. And the next.
The next morning, Aunt Nell surprised me. “Hetty,” she said, “how would you like to go into the village by yourself today and buy something for me?”
“I’d love to!”
She gave me some money and told me where to find what she needed. Then she said, “Now, remember—don’t stay too long. A fog often comes in from the sea in the late afternoon. If that happens, you might not be able to find your way home.”
I told her that I’d be careful. Then I skipped off. I had to go over a bridge, walk down a long lane, and cross two fields to get to the village. The fields were surrounded by high hedges. They had stiles, or steps, in them that allowed people but not animals to go through. After I crossed the last stile, I went straight to the village store, made my purchase, and turned toward home.
“Hetty!” someone called. I turned back and saw some of Aunt Nell’s cousins playing on their doorstep. “Can you stay and play?”
“Well …” I hesitated. The sun was still high in the sky. It wouldn’t hurt to stay a little while. “OK,” I said, “but not long.”
“Not long” turned into “too long.” The sun was getting low in the sky when I started back to Aunt Nell’s. I crossed the first field just fine, but as I entered the second field, the fog came rolling in. I walked around and around the field, but I couldn’t find the stile.
Finally I stopped and stood shivering in the thick, damp fog. My father’s words echoed in my head: “Don’t forget to say your prayers.” I knew I needed Heavenly Father’s help, but how could I pray to Him after I’d been disobedient?
I knelt in the wet grass. “Heavenly Father,” I whispered, “I’m sorry I’ve been forgetting to say my prayers. And I’m sorry I stayed too long in the village. But please help me find my way.”
Just then, a horrible “Eeee-Aaaa!” sounded right by my ear. Terrified, I leaped up and stumbled away from that awful noise. And there, right in my path, was the stile! In an instant, I climbed up and over it. Then I ran down the lane, heading straight for a lantern bobbing towards me. It was Aunt Nell! I threw myself into her arms.
“There, there,” she soothed, and she took me home. That night I knelt and thanked Heavenly Father for helping me, and I promised to never again forget to pray.
The sun was out the next morning. I asked Aunt Nell to go for a walk with me. We crossed the bridge, walked down the lane, and came to the stile. I took a deep breath and climbed it. As I reached the top, I looked down into the field and saw the answer to my prayer. There, tethered near the bottom of the stile, was a donkey.
I laughed.
“What is it?” Aunt Nell asked.
“Oh, I’m just happy,” I answered. And I was. I’d found out for sure that Heavenly Father loves me and answers prayers—sometimes in unexpected ways. He might even use a donkey to do it.

My father was the bishop of our ward at the time of its announcement to the Church in April general conference of 1936. The world was struggling in the Great Depression. So many of the fathers of our ward were unemployed. In those days a dime for admission to a school activity would prevent many of my friends from attending because their parents could not afford even that small amount for their children’s enjoyment.
Because of my father’s calling as a bishop, I was able to gain an appreciation of the welfare program from its very beginning as I watched him administer to the needs of the poor in his ward with great love and tenderness. How often I raced home from school anticipating a planned activity. As I would round the corner of our home, there I would see sacks of flour, sugar, and other commodities. My heart would fall, as I knew it would be another evening out with Father as he delivered these commodities to those in need. The planned activity would have to be cancelled for that evening.
When he arrived home, I was always enlisted to help him put the commodities in the car and travel with him to make the deliveries. Sometimes I would grumble under my breath for having been so put upon, but then I would have the remarkable experience of watching the light come back into the eyes of a depressed family as food was brought into their home. I always returned home from those experiences with an exhilarated feeling of watching the Church in action as it was caring for its poor and its needy through fast offerings and good, kind priesthood leaders.

Paola Fava has been a member of the Church for 10 years. Her home is in Genoa, a beautiful port city on the northwestern shore of Italy that is famous for being the birthplace of Christopher Columbus and of a traditional Italian food called pesto. Her husband passed away in 2009. She has a little dog, Bak, and she stays busy serving in the Church and doing family history. Here is her conversion story.
A number of years ago, I knew a girl who worked at the London branch of the same company I worked for. She was brilliant in her job and delightful as a friend. I didn’t know she was a Mormon. For many years we kept in touch by letter, and every time she said that she had a lot of work to do for her church, I never understood what sort of work it might be. Then one day she wrote that she was doing “baptisms for the dead,” and this made me curious.
Some years passed, and I went to see her in England. One day during my visit, we sat on the grass and she asked me if we could talk a little bit about God. “How strange,” I thought, but I told her yes. She said to me, “Did you know that a boy in America found plates of gold that told the story of ancient Americans to whom Jesus Christ appeared?” She told me that the boy was also given the message to restore on the earth the ancient Church of Jesus Christ, and he did this despite many difficulties.
This message struck me profoundly. I felt it was indeed true, and that night at her house, I found a copy of the Book of Mormon on the nightstand. But I didn’t want to involve myself with a different church at that time, even though I didn’t feel spiritually well.
One day in another letter she told me that her husband had become a member of her church and things had never been better. “OK, I really must get to know this church!” I said to myself. I called the mission office and arranged to meet with the sister missionaries.
After I received the lessons, I entered the waters of baptism. I shed many tears and felt immense joy, and I experienced innumerable blessings, which continue to this day. My conversion was the fruit of the patience and perseverance of a special friend. She had conviction that her message would deeply impress my heart. I experienced a great change in my life, and I am finally happy in the faith, truly knowing who I am, where I come from, and especially where I want to go.

I have found the same holds true when it comes to professional work. I have never been able to justify that my particular talents and services were needed professionally on the Sabbath day. I am often invited by others to work on the Sabbath day, and it would be tempting if I didn’t know that depending on the Lord yields much greater benefits than Sabbath employment. This was a learning curve for me, however, and I still remember one of my early experiences with this.

I was a student here at BYU and getting calls to play professionally, usually in Salt Lake City. This particular call, though, was to play in Boise for the Buddy Morrow Orchestra. It was very tempting because I was two months behind on rent and had no money for food. This job would have paid both months’ rent and put me back on my feet with some food, but it was on Saturday and Sunday. I was still trying to develop the faith and trust to really depend on the Lord in these kinds of situations, so I didn’t have a pat answer ready. I said to the caller, “Let me check on those dates, and I will call you back within half an hour.” I went immediately to my knees to check on the dates, and I knew what I must do. I called him back and said, “I’m sorry, but I have another commitment on that weekend.” I did not explain to him that it was my commitment to the Lord to keep His day holy, but, as I hung up, I felt the confirming burning of the Spirit in my heart and knew that the Lord would take care of me somehow. It doesn’t always happen so soon, but it was less than 24 hours later when another call came, this time to play for the Shrine Circus in Salt Lake. It was for the same weekend, but it was on Friday and Saturday. I made $25 more than I would have in Boise, and I was glad I was in my meetings that Sunday when I was called into the elders quorum presidency.

Four-year-old Chad could hardly wait until Monday, when he would go to Cousins’ Camp for the first time. His grandparents held a special camp each year for all their grandchildren.
His older brothers and sister talked about it all year, saying it was even better than going to the Grand Canyon, where their family had visited last year.
The night before camp, Chad and his brothers and sister packed their clothes, scriptures, and journals. Chad couldn’t read yet, but he had his own set of scriptures. When Grandpa had told him he should bring a journal, too, Chad was worried.
“Grandpa,” Chad had whispered, “I don’t know how to write.”
Grandpa had smiled and placed a gentle hand on Chad’s shoulder. “That’s all right. You can draw pictures of what we do at camp. Grandma and I want you to have a record of the week.”
Chad’s mother took him and his brothers and sister to his grandparents’ home in the country the following morning. A banner hung between two poles with the words “Cousins’ Camp” printed in big black letters.
Grandma and Grandpa greeted each child with a hug and a name tag. Grandpa asked Chad’s older brother, Tayson, to give a prayer.
The children rotated between a story station, a cooking station, and a craft station. Grandpa told stories about their pioneer ancestors at the story station. At the cooking station, they made pizzas from Grandma’s homemade dough for their lunch.
At the craft station, Chad made a birdhouse. He couldn’t decide what colors to paint it. All the colors were so pretty. Then he remembered a song he learned in Primary. He chose red, yellow, and blue.
Grandma sat on the bench beside him. “You have chosen beautiful colors for your birdhouse,” she said.
Chad smiled and said, “Thanks, Grandma. They’re the Primary colors.”
Later, Grandma helped everyone make Peanut Butter Balls for an afternoon snack. Chad ate three.
When Chad started to yawn, Grandma suggested a nap.
For dinner, Grandpa showed everyone how to make tinfoil meals with hamburger, potatoes, and carrots. Then they cooked them in the campfire coals.
Chad usually didn’t like his food mixed together, but the tinfoil meals tasted great. He asked for seconds.
At the end of the day, everyone roasted marshmallows over the campfire. Grandpa and Grandma told stories from their childhood. After Chad said his prayers, he settled inside his sleeping bag, tired but happy. “This is the best camp ever!” he thought. “There are already a lot of pictures I can draw in my journal. I can’t wait to see what we do tomorrow.”

My father had a unique experience when he was the age of a priest. There were no high schools where he lived, and he wanted an education. He received permission from his father to leave the farm and seek his education elsewhere, but he had to make it on his own. Arriving in Salt Lake City, he heard of an employment position being offered in the home of President Joseph F. Smith. He was hired to care for the prophet’s two cows. In our family home evenings we would want Dad to relate experiences about his early life of living in the home of the prophet. We would hear him make reports like this:
Sister Smith instructed my father in his duties, explaining that the cows “were aristocrats, and you must treat them well. You are to keep them so clean and train them so well that if I should ever at any time conclude to move them into the parlor, they would be clean enough to enter.” Dad said he understood milking but not laundering cows.
Before milking each morning and night, they were thoroughly washed and dried with hot water, soap, and towels prepared for that purpose. They were fed the best of hay and milked at exactly the same hour twice a day.
In addition to his duties with the Smith family and their “aristocratic” cows, my father was asked on occasion to do some housework. He would tell us stories like this: “One frosty morning I washed the steps leading to the official residence of the President of the Church. It nearly led to his downfall, for I let the water freeze before drying. Then I had to take boiling water and thaw the ice and take towels to dry the stones. The steps were nearly clean, but my classmates were passing on their way to school before the job was completed. It was a humbling experience.”
By telling these stories, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that my father was a male twin to Cinderella. The Smith family took this poor farm boy from Idaho into their home while he finished high school and attended the University of Utah. They included him in their family activities, around the dinner table, and at family prayer. My father shared with us his witness that the prophet Joseph F. Smith was truly a man of God: “When I kneeled with the prophet, in family prayer, and listened to his earnest supplications for the blessings of the Lord upon his family and their flocks and their herds, I realized that those same humiliating cows were the subject of his blessings, my feet were brought solidly to earth. … Most great men I have known have been deflated by intimate contact. Not so with the prophet Joseph F. Smith. Every common everyday act added inches to his greatness. To me he was prophet even while washing his hands or untying his shoes.”
The lessons learned taught us a great appreciation and love for a prophet of God.

As a child, I couldn’t wait for Christmas. When Mom brought out the boxes of decorations, my five brothers and I knew that Christmas had begun. We would always set up the tree as a family. I still remember the handmade ornaments and the many shiny colored glass balls.
One part of the decorating, however, Mom took care of herself. My grandmother had made Mom a beautiful white porcelain nativity. Every year, Mom would set the nativity on the large mantle in the living room. I loved to sit and watch her put each figure in place. Under each figure, she put a tiny white light from a string of lights. She taped one end of the lights to the mantle to secure them, and then she plugged them into the outlet behind the chair in the corner. When the mantle lit up, it was a beautiful sight!
One night, close to Christmas, my brothers got a little rowdy. The older ones chased my younger brother. In the midst of the chase, he hid behind the chair next to the mantle. When my brothers found him, he rushed to escape, but his foot caught the string of lights underneath the nativity. The small pieces of tape were no match for the pull of his foot. The delicate nativity shot down from the mantle onto the red brick below, shattering into pieces.
Mom rushed into the living room. When she saw what had happened, she burst into tears and went to her room. She knew it was an accident, but the damage was done.
That night, after we were all in bed, Dad got out the dustpan and the broom and carefully swept up the broken pieces. Then he stayed up all night gluing the pieces together.
The nativity still bears some scars. The cow is missing an ear. One wise man is missing a piece from his face. One shepherd is more glue than porcelain in some places. But, miraculously, the broken figures were mended.
Grandmother offered to make a new nativity, but Mom declined. She said her nativity means even more to her now. It serves as a symbol of the devotion of her loving husband and as a reminder of our loving Savior.

You might be familiar with the story of a man who got a flat tire while traveling and needed to borrow a jack. He saw a light on in a nearby farmhouse and walked toward the house. As he got closer, he began to rehearse what he might say and imagined the response of the person living in the farmhouse. Pretty soon his mind had gone from an expected response of “Sure, help yourself” to one of the farmer demanding payment and questioning why he was so rudely awakened. By the time the man reached the farmhouse, he knocked on the door angrily and said, “I don’t want your stupid jack anyway!”

We might fall prey to this same type of ­behavior—assuming the intentions and response of another without giving them the benefit of the doubt and listening.

I served the first 11 months of my mission in Utah instead of where I had been assigned. This reassignment came because of the COVID-19 pandemic. I spoke my native language, ate food I was comfortable with, and visited familiar faces and places. It was amazing!
When travel restrictions lifted, I spent the remaining seven months of my mission in the beautiful Dominican Republic (my original assignment). I walked hours along the bright and lively streets, spoke Spanish, ate a ton of plantains and mangos, and taught the gospel of Jesus Christ to some of the most humble, fun, and faithful people I’ve ever met. This was also absolutely amazing!

Recently I listened to a new convert tell in a meeting how he had three Church assignments. First, he put the flag up each day in front of the chapel. He then briefly explained the meaning of the flag to him. Second, he kept the hymnbooks in repair. Here he mentioned how these hymns were so inspiring and contained much doctrine and prophesy. He briefly referred to the hymn “O, My Father” and its reference to a Mother in Heaven. Third, he was a home teacher and explained what this service can mean to both the teacher as well as to the person being visited and taught.

This man enjoyed and appreciated these three opportunities to serve and was blessing the lives of others as well as magnifying his talents.

Or what about what we learn from this four year old after she complained about a tummy ache to her mother and her mother said, "Your tummy aches because your stomach is empty. If you had something in it, you'd feel a whole lot better." Later that afternoon, a neighbor stopped by for a visit. The neighbor said; "I'm not sure what is wrong with me, but I've had this headache all day". The four year old explained, "Your head hurts because it's empty. If you had something in it you would feel a whole lot better."

Many years ago in a general conference, I spoke of how José de Souza Marques understood the words of the Savior that “if any man among you be strong in the Spirit, let him take with him him that is weak, that he may … become strong also.”

Brother Marques knew the name of every sheep in his priests quorum and realized that Fernando was missing. He hunted for Fernando at his house, then looked for him at a friend’s home, and even went to the beach.

He finally found Fernando surfing in the ocean. He did not hesitate until the boat sank, like in Daniel’s story. He immediately entered the water to rescue his lost sheep, bringing him home rejoicing.

He then ensured through continual ministering that Fernando never again would leave the fold.

Allow me to update you on what has happened since Fernando was rescued and to share the joy that came from rescuing just one lost sheep. Fernando married his sweetheart, Maria, in the temple. They now have 5 children and 13 grandchildren, all of whom are active in the Church. Many other relatives and their families have also joined the Church. Together they have submitted thousands of their ancestors’ names to receive temple ordinances, and the blessings just keep coming.

Fernando is now serving as bishop for the third time, and he continues to rescue, just like he was rescued. He recently shared, “In our ward, we have 32 active young men of the Aaronic Priesthood, 21 of whom were rescued in the last 18 months.” As individuals, families, quorums, auxiliaries, classes, and home and visiting teachers, we can do that!