Gospel Story Finder

I have had problems with using bad language around my friends at school. It made me feel guilty whenever my parents would say, “We’re glad you don’t use bad language,” because they didn’t know what I was doing. I felt that the Holy Ghost would leave me because I was not only using bad language, I was also lying about it to my parents.
In Primary, we had a lesson about making right choices. I felt I should tell my parents about what I had been doing. I told my mom. Together we told my dad. They told me to start praying to Heavenly Father for help and for forgiveness. We talked about ways to stop swearing. Every now and then they would ask me how I was doing.
Today I’m still praying to Heavenly Father to help me use good language. I’m doing much better. Whenever I feel like saying something I shouldn’t, I get a hesitant feeling. That’s the Holy Ghost helping me to not swear. I get a warm feeling inside whenever I stop myself. I know that Heavenly Father is helping me to be more like Jesus.

Illustration by Allen Garns
I was finishing my mission in the Illinois Chicago South Mission when I received special permission to visit a previous area and have dinner with the Tremillo family. I had served in their ward for a whole year and had grown close to them.
During dinner, Brother Tremillo encouraged me to share at least one message of happiness on my way home. He said the Lord would put someone on my flight who would need my help. I promised him that I would.
From that time to the time I left Chicago, I was also praying to receive confirmation that the Lord would accept my sacrifice of serving a mission.
Three weeks later, I boarded the plane that would take me home. As I approached my seat, the person in the seat next to mine looked up. “No way!” she said. “I can’t believe it!”
My first thought was, “Great, she hates Mormons!” When I sat down, she told me that her name was Kelly and that she was a recent convert. She expressed how happy she was that a missionary was sitting next to her. Kelly told me that the last person she had sat next to was anti-Mormon and unkind in how she expressed her opinion of Kelly’s newfound faith. Kelly was distraught and had questions. She had been praying for answers and comfort.
I said a prayer in my heart and testified of the truth of the gospel and of God’s love for His children, including her. I told her about the advice I had received from Brother Tremillo. I said that God had prepared this special moment just for her.
With tears in her eyes, Kelly thanked me. She also said, “I can tell that you were a good missionary and that the Lord accepts your sacrifice.” At that moment, I felt God’s deep love for me. It was my turn to cry. With tears in my eyes, I thanked Kelly and told her that she had been an answer to my prayer. I answered a few more of her questions, and we exchanged email addresses.
Our flight landed and we waved goodbye as she walked to her next flight. I will always be grateful that Heavenly Father was willing to bless us in such a tender way.

While we were living in California, one of our sons was seriously injured in an automobile accident. His skull was badly fractured, and doctors gave us very little encouragement that he would survive. Three days after he was admitted to the hospital, he contracted meningitis and his condition worsened. Our family doctor and neighbor came to our home and said, “All we can do now is pray.”

And pray we did. For several weeks our neighbors, friends, and business associates joined us in praying for our son and for our own strength. After almost a month, our son’s condition finally stabilized and then improved, and we were blessed to see him eventually recovered and smiling again.

I would not wish a similar experience on anyone, but that terrible, difficult period taught us the principle that President Thomas S. Monson has taught the Church. Said he, “Prayer is the passport to spiritual power.” During our son’s illness, we saw and felt the spiritual power of prayer! Our ward had never prayed harder than it did then, and I don’t think that the members had ever been closer to each other. Our family was sustained by the collective faith and prayers of our friends. And even as our hearts were breaking in fear that we might lose our son, we felt closer to Heavenly Father and more aware of our dependency on Him than at almost any other time in our lives.

Hayden brought immeasurable joy into our lives. We cherished and adored him. But as time passed, I began to worry that he was not progressing as expected. Although specialists reassured us that he would eventually catch up, the nagging anxieties continued as I struggled to help my son.
My husband and I studied to learn all we could about Hayden’s illness. We did everything the doctors told us to do. Yet progress didn’t come.
I grew tired and frustrated. I pleaded with my Father in Heaven to help me find someone who could help Hayden, but help didn’t come. Hayden’s condition worsened. He started having seizures. We were scared. We thought we were losing him.
One night, I was up late searching for answers. I wrote Hayden a letter. I told him how much I loved him and how hard I was trying to make his life easier. I promised I would spend the rest of my life trying to get him the help he needed.
Frustration and uncertainty momentarily overwhelmed me. I knelt and asked my Father in Heaven, “Why?” I thought He had sent Hayden to me because He knew I would never give up trying to help my son. So why couldn’t I find any answers? Why did each new doctor and each new treatment lead to another roadblock? Didn’t Heavenly Father love Hayden?
I will never forget that moment. An overwhelming feeling of love suddenly embraced me. Words that were not my own entered my mind: “Jerlyn, do you think you love him more than I do?”
I froze. Time stood still. Tears flooded down my face—not out of frustration like before, but out of hope, understanding, and love.
In that one moment, everything changed. My heart softened. My questions changed. I understand now that my Father in Heaven loves Hayden with a perfect love. Hayden was sent here in a body that is suited for his needs and his opportunities for growth and learning. He has his own unique set of abilities and challenges, just like each of us. I have come to know that children with disabilities are precious and beloved children of Heavenly Father who have a special mission here on this earth.
My husband and I constantly receive answers and blessings, but they come in the Lord’s timing, not our own. We have been led to the right books, therapies, schools, and teachers to help Hayden succeed in his mortal life. We strive to search for the path that our Father in Heaven has put in place for Hayden instead of the path we wanted him to walk. We are doing all we can to help Hayden reach his divine potential and live the life his Heavenly Father has designed for him. Our understanding of Heavenly Father’s plan has been so much clearer now that we understand that Hayden was His before Hayden was ours.

Huddled together on the freezing ground, Mary Elizabeth and her family camped on the banks of the Missouri River and waited to be ferried over to freedom. While they waited, the Saints found out that among all the families, they did not have enough money to ferry everyone.
“Some families will have to stay behind,” one of the men said.
“Whoever stays behind will be killed!” a woman cried.
“Maybe the ferryman will let us pay in fish,” one of the men suggested.
A few of the men went to the shore and set up fishing lines. The rest of the Saints prayed in the cold rain for help from the Lord. The lines stayed out all night and into the next morning.
When the men checked the fishing lines, they rejoiced to see they had caught some small fish and one very large catfish. Mary Elizabeth watched while the men cleaned the fish. When they cut open the catfish, everyone fell silent. To her amazement, Mary Elizabeth saw three bright silver half-dollars inside the fish, just the amount needed for all the Saints to cross the river to safety. Mary Elizabeth joined the other Saints in a prayer of gratitude for the Lord’s protection.

A moment in time from my own family history exemplifies a commitment to care for those in need. Many have heard of the Willie and Martin handcart companies and how these faithful pioneers suffered and died as they endured winter cold and debilitating conditions during their trek west. Robert Taylor Burton, one of my great-great-grandfathers, was one of those whom Brigham Young asked to ride out and rescue those dear, desperate Saints.
Of this time Grandfather wrote in his journal: “Snow deep [and] very cold. … So cold that [we] could not move. … Thermometer 11 degrees below zero [-24°C] … ; so cold the people could not travel.”
Life-saving supplies were distributed to the stranded Saints, but “in spite of all [the rescuers] could do many were laid to rest by the wayside.”
As the rescued Saints were traversing a portion of the trail through Echo Canyon, several wagons pulled off to assist in the arrival of a baby girl. Robert noticed the young mother did not have enough clothing to keep her newborn infant warm. In spite of the freezing temperatures, he “took off his own homespun shirt and gave it to the mother to [wrap] the baby.” The child was given the name Echo—Echo Squires—as a remembrance of the place and circumstances of her birth.
In later years Robert was called to the Presiding Bishopric of the Church, where he served for more than three decades. At age 86 Robert Taylor Burton fell ill. He gathered his family to his bedside to give them his final blessing. Among his last words was this simple but very profound counsel: “Be kind to the poor.”

By Kyle S., Texas, USA
Photograph © iStock/Thinkstock
My parents and I listened to Elder Bednar in the October 2011 general conference when he said that working on family history would give us protection against the adversary. We started working on our family history then. I keep learning and growing from family history; it’s really fun.
I like finding out about where I’m from and about my ancestors. I learn from their experiences and use them in my life to help me be a better person. It’s amazing to discover who they were, what they did for a living, what life was like, and how hard it was for them.
For example, I enjoyed learning about one of my ancestors who moved with his family from Tennessee to Texas, USA, in the 1870s to be a cattle rancher. He faced many challenges in his life, and from him I learned that life can be hard, so it’s important to stand up for what you believe.
When I have challenges in my life, working on family history makes me feel like my ancestors are always with me and will help me through hard trials, just as Elder Bednar promised us.

Several years ago my daughter, who was only seven years old, had a large swollen bump on the front of her neck. The pediatrician who was treating Jeanette explained that she had a goiter and that it was growing internally and externally and was quite serious. He sent her to the hospital for some tests and said she would probably have to have an operation.
Our family immediately began to fast and pray for Jeanette’s recovery. We prayed that everything would turn out all right. Jeanette had great faith and would often say, “Mama, I know that God is going to heal me and they won’t have to operate.”
The days went by, and the time came to take her to the children’s hospital in San José, the capital of Costa Rica. Before we went, my husband and my two brothers gave her a priesthood blessing. During the blessing, Jeanette felt within herself that a great miracle was being worked. She felt a sweet and tender hand pass over her throat. “Mama,” she said later, “I know I’m fine. They’re not going to put me in the hospital or operate on me.”
While we were in the hospital waiting room, I asked Jeanette how she felt.
“Just fine,” she told me, and she said again that there was not anything wrong with her.
My husband and I prayed constantly and tried to exercise faith that all would be well. We also understood that it might not be the Lord’s will for Jeanette to be healed; we prayed for the courage and faith to accept that answer as well.
Eventually the doctor called my daughter into his office and began to examine her. Then, very surprised, he said, “I’m sorry, but you will have to wait here for a moment. I have some concerns, and I need to call some of my colleagues.”
He left and returned with five other pediatricians. I was so nervous I was shaking, but my daughter was happy and calm. The doctors examined her, and then our pediatrician said, “She’s fine. There’s not a thing wrong with her. I don’t know what happened, but she’s fine. Go home and don’t worry about her.”
My daughter is 14 years old now, and she is very healthy and active and has a strong testimony. My own testimony has been strengthened because of her example. We are grateful that Heavenly Father heard and answered our prayers. And while the doctors may have been confused by these events, we understand what happened and are grateful for the Lord’s healing blessings in our lives.

About a year and a half later, I was serving in the mountains of Peru when I received an unexpected phone call from my mission president. He told me my father had suffered a stroke and was in critical condition. After a short time, my father passed away. I was devastated, and I felt plagued with questions like, “How can I ever get over this?”
I prayed to Heavenly Father for an answer. Mostly I wanted to know why my father had to be taken away without me even having the chance to say goodbye. I turned to the Book of Mormon, opened it, and read the same words I had shared with that elder many months before: “But behold, all things have been done in the wisdom of him who knoweth all things.” Those words covered me with peace like a blanket and gave me grace when I felt lost.
My earthly father was gone, but my Heavenly Father would always be there for me. Heavenly Father does all things in His wisdom, and as we search and do our best to prepare ourselves, we can find precious answers.

A few years ago, my friend Jack swore a lot. I knew that Jesus and God didn’t want that. I asked him if he could stop swearing around me, and he had enough respect to stop. We’re best friends now.
Now whenever he hears someone swearing around me, he’ll apologize to me and ask them to stop. I think that’s really cool. He’s come to church a few times and even said a prayer. I asked the missionaries for a Book of Mormon and gave it to him.

He worked as a driver for a local cacao company in his hometown until civil war and unrest led him to move to Abidjan in 2004. There he encountered Latter-day Saint missionaries and learned about the restored gospel.
He was baptized on March 25, 2005, and his testimony has only continued to grow from there.
“Six months after my baptism, President [Gordon B.] Hinckley invited all the members around the world to read the Book of Mormon. Following President Hinckley’s invitation, my mind began to open, and the message of the Restoration became clearer for me to understand,” Bishop says.
But it was those missionaries’ initial love and interest in him as a person that first piqued his interest.
“My conversion did not begin with the [gospel] teachings. . . . I was only impressed by the missionaries; I loved their mark of attention towards me.”
And those missionaries probably had no idea how much that “mark of attention” would mean to Bishop. It became a huge focal point in his life and how he now shares the gospel with others.

Elder Gordon B. Hinckley
At the outset, I should like to say that I am convinced that we have never had a more dedicated or more capable generation of young men in the history of the Church. Some of you older brethren may dispute that, which brings to mind the story of the boy who came down to breakfast one morning and said, “Dad, I dreamed about you last night.”
“About me? What did you dream?”
“I dreamed I was climbing a ladder to heaven and on the way up I had to write one of my sins on each step of the ladder.”
“And where did I come into your dream?” the father asked.
Said the boy, “When I was going up, I met you coming down for more chalk.”

No eight-year-old hated wearing a coat more than I did. Sure, a coat might come in handy on an Arctic expedition. But most of the time, I thought going coatless made a lot of sense. Who wanted to worry about finding a place to hang a coat and then get in trouble for leaving it behind?
I definitely didn’t expect to need my coat that New Year’s Eve. My family would be driving to my grandparents’ house and spending the night. I’d suffocate if I had to wear my big itchy coat for two hours, wedged in the backseat of the station wagon between my two brothers. Once we got to Grandma’s, we would play board games until midnight and watch the parade on TV the next day. Then we’d sit down to eat Grandma’s pork roast, homemade applesauce, and butter cookies. I would be indoors the whole time—no need for a coat.
As we piled into the station wagon, Mom went down her checklist. Maybe she wouldn’t notice that I didn’t have my coat. Yes, we remembered our toothbrushes. Yes, we packed our pajamas.
“Where’s your coat, Lana?” She noticed!
“I won’t need it. I won’t be outside at all.”
“Go get your coat. And hurry, please. It’s already getting dark.”
I dashed inside and yanked open the closet door. My warm winter coat and my jacket hung side by side. The jacket! Light, silky, and comfortable, it was the perfect solution. As I reached for the jacket, I had a feeling that I should wear the big coat instead.
I ignored the feeling. Surely I wouldn’t need that stuffy old thing. The jacket would do just fine.
Again something nudged me toward the heavy coat. Shrugging it off again, I snatched the thin jacket and ran to the car.
They were waiting for me with the engine running. Mom frowned when she glanced at my jacket, but Dad put the car in reverse and backed out of the garage.
Halfway into the trip, a thick layer of fog rolled in. The headlights turned the fog a milky white that was difficult to see through. My parents were tense and quiet. The mood spread to the backseat, keeping my brothers and me quiet, too.
Without warning, a pair of headlights appeared suddenly in front of us. In a shattering explosion of glass and metal, we crashed head-on into a pickup truck that had strayed into our lane. The noise was deafening, and the silence immediately afterward was just as loud.
“Is everybody OK?” My father’s strained voice was the first to break the stillness.
A shaky response came from my older brother. “I think so.”
“All of you need to get out and stand in that field. I’ll help Mom.”
My brothers and I scrambled out of the backseat and stood on frozen mud next to the road. With Dad’s arm around her, Mom limped over to us. A painful bump on the head had shaken her, but she seemed OK.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Dad asked us.
With wide eyes, we each nodded.
Dad looked each of us over before hurrying back to check on the man in the pickup truck.
My thin jacket was no match for the icy December air. Even huddled up against Mom, my shivers wouldn’t stop. I thought of my warm winter coat hanging in the closet back home.
An ambulance came, then a police car. Voices squawked from the radio as the rotating lights dyed the fog red, then blue, red, blue. Dad came back and led us to the police car. We had shivered for over an hour in the bitter cold.
A police officer drove us to the hospital. The ambulance had already taken the other man. Dad got stitches in his hand, and the doctors examined Mom’s head injury. She was OK. My brothers and I had a few bruises, but we knew it could have been much worse.
My grandparents picked us up at the hospital and took us to their house. When Grandma tucked me into bed and kissed me good-night, my body seemed to melt into the softness of the sheets. For the first time that night, I felt warm and safe.
I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts drifted back to the moment when I had decided to bring my jacket. It dawned on me that the Holy Ghost had been telling me to wear my warm coat.
A few months earlier my grandpa had confirmed me a member of the Church, and I had received the gift of the Holy Ghost. I remembered the power in his hands when he placed them on my head. I had been so excited, so eager to hear what the Holy Ghost would say to me. Now I had ignored Him. My throat tightened as I fought back tears.
A new feeling came and took the tears away. I felt the love of my Heavenly Father. I knew He would help me through the difficult times in my life. He couldn’t take away every bad thing, but He would help me if I let Him.
I moved the curtains above the bed aside just enough to see outside. The fog was as thick as ever. No stars tonight. I imagined the stars, the moon, the planets, the entire universe. The God of all creation had wanted to give me a warm coat tonight.
A tear slipped down my cheek. This time it was a tear of gratitude. I rolled out of bed and onto my knees. I needed to tell Heavenly Father that I was ready to listen and obey the still, small voice.

When I was 15 years old, I liked a girl in my class at school and wanted to date her. She was attractive, but I wondered if I should ask her out before I turned 16. I remembered Alma 37:37, which says, “Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings, and he will direct thee for good.” So that is what I did. I prayed and waited several days for the Lord’s answer before making a decision.
One day at church, my bishop called me in to a room and invited me to speak the next Sunday. Guess what the topic was? Do not date until you are at least 16 years old. I felt that this was the Lord’s answer to me, and it was no. How could I teach something that I did not practice?
Because I had counseled with the Lord, I was able to learn the Lord’s will for my life and also to flee from temptation. I know that if we counsel with the Lord, He will tell us His will and we will be greatly blessed.

Priscilla’s grandparents lived in a beautiful home in Liverpool, England. Though Priscilla was the fourth of nine children and had many cousins, Grandfather and Grandmother Mitchell made her feel like their favorite person in the entire world. She loved to be in their home, and they were always buying gifts for her.
Then, one day, everything changed. Missionaries from America taught her family the gospel, and her parents were baptized. Priscilla and her brothers and sisters planned to be baptized too. When Grandfather found out, he was angry.
Priscilla had never known Grandfather to be angry before. It frightened her. He shouted unforgettable, sickening words to Priscilla’s father: “Hezekiah, take your family and leave. Don’t ever come back!”
At home, the stunned family gathered around the fireplace. Father had never looked so sad. Mother hadn’t stopped crying since they had left their grandparents’ home.
Priscilla was confused and heartbroken. “Why don’t Grandmother and Grandfather love us anymore?” she cried.
Father tried to explain. “Grandfather is opposed to our new church. He wants no part of it, and he wants no part of us if we continue with it.” Father stood tall. “But I know that Jesus Christ lives. This is His true Church. He will help us find the way, as long as we do everything we can to be like Him.”
Priscilla’s family tried to be happy, but everything seemed to get worse. Father lost his job as a minister in their former church, so money was scarce even though he taught school. Mother mended clothes instead of replacing them. Priscilla tried not to complain, but life seemed to get harder every day. She longed to visit her grandparents. If she could only talk to them …
A knock sounded at the door. Priscilla’s heart leaped with hope, but it wasn’t her grandparents. Uncle George and Aunt Hannah stood on the porch with gifts and a basket of food. Priscilla was happy to see them, but all too soon she was sent outside so they could talk to her parents. It sounded serious.
“Priscilla,” Aunt Hannah finally called. “How would you like to come live with us?” They had no children and wanted to adopt her, Uncle George explained. There would be plenty of room for her in their mansion, and she could receive better schooling.
“It will leave more of the basics for your brothers and sisters too,” Aunt Hannah added. Priscilla knew that it was a struggle for her parents to feed and clothe all nine of their children. If she went, it would make things easier for her family.
Father gazed sadly at the floor. Mother sobbed into her handkerchief. The offer was kind, but accepting it would not be easy. Priscilla packed her bags and bid her family farewell.
*****
“This will be your bedroom,” Aunt Hannah said. Priscilla had always shared a room with her four sisters. Now she had a room of her own and a maid to clean it.
Aunt Hannah took her shopping to buy pretty dresses. In no time, the closet was full of them. Her aunt and uncle planned parties so Priscilla could meet new friends. Priscilla had many advantages, but she missed being with her family and listening to Father teach as they sat around the fireplace.
*****
On the morning of her 10th birthday, Priscilla was making dancing dolls out of hollyhock blooms in the garden. She was excited for the party to be held that afternoon, but she wished her sisters could come.
Suddenly, she spotted a tall, thin man coming up the road with a walking stick. Priscilla ran to meet him.
“Happy birthday, Princess Priscilla,” Father said. He swept her into his arms and swung her around.
“Oh, Father, you remembered!” she exclaimed.
Together they walked inside. Father pulled a letter from his pocket. “Priscilla, Uncle George and Aunt Hannah have requested to officially adopt you.” Priscilla knew what that meant—she would inherit great wealth and a respected name. She would never need to worry about money again.
“I have more news,” Father said. “Soon your mother, brothers, sisters, and I are going to America.”
“Will you ever come back?” Priscilla asked.
Father shook his head. “George and Hannah love you. They will take care of you and give you more wealth and opportunities than I can ever offer. On the other hand, life in America with the new church will be difficult and require many sacrifices.” Father looked into his daughter’s eyes. “You must choose for yourself, Priscilla.”
Priscilla didn’t hesitate. She ran to Aunt Hannah and hugged and kissed her. “I love you, Aunt Hannah, and I will always remember you,” she said. “But I know that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true. I must go to America with my family and be baptized.”
And that is exactly what she did.

I still remember my first cross-country skiing trip with my family. My parents, siblings, and I piled the ski equipment into our station wagon and traveled to a local mountain where we would spend the day. When we arrived at the site, I realized that in the hustle of packing I had left one of my skis at home. Worse yet, I’d forgotten my ski poles altogether.
Going home to retrieve the forgotten equipment was simply not feasible. My father, ever pragmatic, told me I’d just have to do my best. Fortunately, my older sister took pity on me and lent me one of her poles.
Having never been skiing, I didn’t think that having only one ski would be a big deal. I was more excited than disappointed—after all, I was finally old enough to participate in my family’s favorite shared activity!
One by one, my siblings put on their gear and headed toward a meadow with a small hill that was fun to ski down. But I couldn’t move an inch! The foot without a ski sank deep into the snow. The foot with the ski was also stuck because the snow clung to the old-fashioned wooden ski, making it extra heavy.
Why wasn’t this coming more easily? The harder I tried, the more stuck I became and the more frustrated I grew. My struggle became more devastating as I saw my father and brothers in the distance. They had reached the meadow and appeared to be having a great time climbing up and skiing down the hill.
Dad came back a few times to check on me, always offering some encouraging words. “Keep going! You’re getting it.” But I wasn’t getting it. In fact, the end of that day came before I ever made it to the meadow. My first ski trip was a huge disappointment.

Several years after I was married, I was called to teach a Sunday School class of 15-year-olds. It was a large class of enthusiastic and energetic students. I had to prepare well each week in order to stay ahead of them.
One Sunday after class a young man waited for the room to clear and then asked if we could talk privately for a moment. He poured out his heart to me about a moral transgression that he was involved in. He cried, and I could see that his heart was filled with great remorse.
I encouraged him to go see the bishop, and eventually I went with him to his appointment and waited outside. Of course, I was not privy to what happened from there, but almost immediately I saw the dark veil of sorrow, grief, evil, and contempt lift from this young man’s face. In time he was back to being the normal and fine young man that I had known him to be for some years previous. Repentance cleansed his soul and it cleansed his heart, mind, and even his face. His eyes were brighter, his smile broader, and his walk and the way he carried himself suggested happiness.

Downtown Salt Lake City was lit up like a Christmas tree. Shoppers laden with an abundance of bags of beautifully wrapped packages ran from store to store, purchasing this and that. Groups of carolers sang out the melodies of good tidings, welcoming in Christmas and the New Year to everyone. Snowflakes with many glorious patterns sprinkled like fairies’ dust over the city streets. There was a feeling of love towards everyone on earth.
I was walking with my dad on Temple Square, admiring the shimmering lights. Our family had planned to spend an enjoyable evening listening to the Mormon Youth Symphony and Chorus and looking at the lights. My mother, my two brothers, and my two sisters were already seated, and my dad and I were going to meet them. We arrived only eight minutes late, but the ushers wouldn’t let us in. We explained that half of our family was already seated, but “policy was policy,” and Dad and I were left out in the cold—the cold snow to be exact.
“Oh, Dad, we were planning on a family activity tonight,” I moaned with disappointment. “Now what are we going to do?”
“Let’s dash over to the visitors’ center,” he replied, with typical enthusiasm. “We’ll be out of the cold, and we can catch a tour while we wait for the others.”
By the time we made our way through the crowds and into the visitors’ center, the last tour had already begun, and the lady at the desk was announcing that the center would close in 15 minutes. Hungry, tired, and discouraged, I plopped myself on one of the benches and tried to tune out my dad’s effort at cheery conversation.
Moments later, my mom rushed in with my brothers and sisters, chattering about how worried they had been and how glad they were to find us.
“Okay, kids,” Dad announced, “we missed the concert, and the visitors’ center is closing, but such a lovely evening should not be spoiled; so I’m treating you all to burritos!
“Yahoo!” we shouted.
“Honey,” my dad said to my mom, “how much money do you have in your purse?”
“Uh, I didn’t bring my purse—not even my checkbook.”
“Oh, no,” I muttered, “my mom always brings her purse, and she had to forget it tonight.”
“Well, kids, I don’t have any money except for one dollar,” my dad said sadly, as he rummaged through his wallet. “Check your pockets for spare change.”
Between the seven of us we came up with an additional $1.37. How was our family going to eat out on two dollars and 37 cents?
“I promised you all burritos,” Dad announced, “and a promise is a promise. So, c’mon, I’ll race you all to the car!” The twinkle in his eye confused us all, but he had already set a brisk pace. We didn’t ask how or why; we just hustled along behind.
Curiosity and suspense mounted as we drove to the restaurant. How could a family of seven be going out to dinner with less than $2.50 and no credit cards?
When we arrived, Dad escorted us in, seated us at a table, and stepped up to the cashier to place his order.
“Are you sure that you only want one burrito?” inquired the puzzled cashier.
“That’s it,” answered my dad.
“Sir,” she asked, “are you positive you wouldn’t like any drinks?”
“Yup, only one burrito. I can’t afford drinks.”
Overhearing his conversation, we burst into giggles and imagined that everyone in the restaurant was staring at us. Giggles turned to hysteria as we watched Dad carry his order to the table as if it were a wedding cake on a silver platter. Carefully, he cut the single burrito into seven bite-sized pieces and presented one to each of us ceremoniously. Dad savored his bite of burrito as he would escargot and reminded us that it’s not what you get in life that counts—it’s how it’s served. Dad always has a mini-sermon to share, but this one we truly savored. He told us of a boyhood Christmas with only one orange but lots of love, of folks he knew with lots of money but poor health, and of friends with great material wealth but no family to share it with.
It took us less than a minute to devour our share of that single burrito, but somehow as we left, I felt full of appreciation for good health, a fun family, and a rather zany dad who taught me that sometimes a burrito Christmas outing can be the one you treasure most.

One Saturday evening in 2009, my missionary companion, Sister Alison Vevea, and I were sitting in a chapel watching the General Relief Society Meeting. I was thinking about Angela, a woman we were helping to prepare for baptism.
Two years earlier, Angela’s son had been killed. Angela was currently unemployed and, although excited to get baptized, often felt lonely and depressed. That evening before the broadcast, Sister Vevea and I had prayed for inspiration to know how to help Angela.
As President Henry B. Eyring spoke, I felt impressed to give something to Angela. But what? The Spirit then told me, “Angela needs flowers.” Almost immediately, President Eyring shared a story about a woman who was prompted to take tulips to a Relief Society sister.1 His story confirmed to me that Angela, for whatever reason, needed flowers.
After the broadcast had ended, I told my companion what the Spirit had whispered to me. Without hesitation, we drove to the nearest grocery store. While looking at the store’s meager flower selection, I picked up a bouquet of daisies.
“I don’t know,” Sister Vevea said. “What about the sunflowers?”
I pointed out their higher price, but my companion insisted. “I really feel that we should get the sunflowers,” she said.
Minutes later we were standing on Angela’s porch, sunflowers in hand. I don’t remember the greetings we exchanged when the door opened. I remember only Angela’s tears.
Angela explained that she refers to each of her children as her “little sunflowers.” Whenever she visits her son’s grave, she rests sunflowers by his headstone. The day before, however, she had gone empty-handed. Despite all her searching, she had not been able to find sunflowers anywhere. With our gift, she planned to return to the cemetery the next day to continue her tradition.
That evening the Spirit had worked through President Eyring, my companion, and me to deliver a message of love to Angela from her Heavenly Father. I am grateful for the whisperings of the Holy Spirit. They taught me early in my mission that God is aware of His children and that He is ever ready to help us accomplish His work.

Not surprisingly, Michelle wants to go on a mission herself someday. She’s practicing by telling her friends about the gospel and inviting them to church. Unfortunately, they seldom come. This doesn’t hurt the friendships, but it does sometimes hurt Michelle. Sadly, one friend who did listen with great interest died in a tragic fire. “I was crying,” Michelle says. “I missed her very much. We went to her church service. It was a sad, rainy day, but I prayed, and I felt that I didn’t have to be sad anymore because I would meet her again. We went to her mom’s house, and her mom was crying. I said, ‘You’ll meet her again in the next life,’ and it seemed to help.”