Gospel Story Finder

“Happy birthday, Heber!” exclaimed his mother as she handed him the most beautiful coat he had ever seen. He hugged it close and his eyes were bright with happiness. He knew how difficult it had been for his mother to make it, and he could hardly wait to go out in the cold and feel its warmth around him.
One day as Heber was hurrying on an errand, he saw a boy in a thin sweater shivering with cold. As he hurried by, the boy looked at Heber’s coat with such longing that, almost before he knew what he was doing, Heber stopped, took off his new coat, and gave it to the boy.
When Heber’s mother saw her son wearing his old coat instead of the new one, she asked what he had done with his lovely new overcoat.
“Oh, Mother,” Heber J. Grant explained, “I saw a boy who needed it lots worse than I, so I gave it to him.”

All my life I’ve had difficulty adjusting to new places and making new friends. A few years ago, my family and I moved. After being in our new home for only a couple of days, we rose early to attend church on Sunday. I didn’t know a soul, but a few girls from Young Women came up and greeted me. Everyone was very friendly that first Sunday, but I still felt a twinge of loneliness and longing for my old friends.
A couple of months later, I prepared to go to girls’ camp. The first few days were filled with physical, mental, and spiritual activities that drew me away from my personal worries as I enjoyed myself. But sitting on my bunk during a break time, I felt the strain brim over, and I quietly cried. I didn’t understand why we had had to move and break away from all that was familiar to me.
After we shared our testimonies while munching on s’mores by the fire that night, I went up to the cabin with all the other girls to go to bed. As I came to the door, a tall Laurel turned around and said kindly, “Let’s have a good-night hug!” As I embraced her, I could feel tears welling up inside me again, but they weren’t tears of self-pity. They were tears of appreciation and gratitude. She cheerfully said good night and left, but the feeling she’d brought with her stayed. I can still feel it now, three years later. I just want to say, “Thank you immensely, and may the Lord bless you!”

My mother’s name is Tatiafogaega Tausagafou Brown-Fuimaono.
When she was young, Tatia lived in a small faleo’o (house) with her family in Matautu Lefaga, Samoa. Her father, Palauni Brown, was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but he had not been active in the Church for a while. Tatia remembers that her dad would still encourage his wife and five children (at the time) to attend his church, even though he didn’t.
Tatia’s mother was a devout member of the Congregational Christian Church of Samoa. When missionaries from her husband’s church would visit their home, she never wanted to have a proper conversation with them, but she did accept their challenge to read the Book of Mormon. This book intrigued her, and before long—even though she still refused to take the missionary lessons—Tatia’s mother was reading from the Book of Mormon daily.
One day, her mother instructed Tatia to collect large, flat stones to hold down the edges of their mosquito nets. Tatia obediently headed out the front of their house, but before she could pick up one stone, she mysteriously collapsed.
Her mother rushed out to her, and then screamed. Tatia was already cold and pale and wasn’t breathing. The very next thought that came to her mother’s mind was to call for the elders, the missionaries from her husband’s church.
By the time the elders arrived, Tatia has been unresponsive for several minutes. The missionaries immediately gave her a blessing of healing, and as she began to wake up, Tatia remembers hearing one elder’s voice saying, “Mother, do not worry. She will be well. Heavenly Father has work for her to do. You and your children will also be blessed because of your faith.”
From that day forward, Tatia’s mother would testify that this event—the miraculous healing of her child—confirmed to her the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and indeed, the priesthood of God. She was baptised in 1959 and spent the rest of her life dedicated to the Lord’s work, especially the gathering of Israel on both sides of the veil.
Before she passed away in 2019—at the age of 90—Tatia’s mother was blessed to witness the elder’s prophecy come true. She would eventually have nine children and they all became strong, active members of the Church, with six of them serving missions of their own. They in turn are raising their own children in the gospel of Jesus Christ, and another generation of Latter-day Saints can thank a faithful grandmother for giving the Book of Mormon a chance.

While in South America, I was touched by the sacrifices made by many of our Saints to have their families sealed to them for eternity. I shed tears of gratitude as I heard some of the experiences recounted.
One of our stake presidents brought his family to the São Paulo Temple from Lima, Peru. It is normally a nine-day bus ride, but, because of bus strikes and other problems, the journey took them fourteen days of travel.
Upon their arrival at São Paulo, the family went to the first session they could, and the sealing ceremony was performed. Then they immediately prepared to leave. The temple president asked them if they were staying the night. The father replied that the family had to leave immediately since they did not have sufficient money for lodging and food. He said that they would have to travel several days without food as it was. That represents the spirit of sacrifice of many of our Saints worldwide.

I was serving in the mission office of the El Salvador San Salvador Mission when the mission president transferred me to an area that had been closed for many years. The leaders of the branch there had not only prayed and fasted that missionaries would return, but they had also prepared for that day.
When I arrived, every family in the branch had friends who were ready to receive the missionaries. One member introduced us to a lady named Ana Oviedo, who sold fruit and homemade food on one of the busiest street corners in the city. While she was there selling food one Saturday morning, we asked if we could visit her at her home and share a message about Jesus Christ. She accepted.
When we arrived that night, Ana and her four children were waiting for us. We introduced ourselves and started teaching them. We felt inspired to teach about the blessings of keeping the Sabbath day holy. We also taught the family about tithing and the promises made by the prophet Malachi (see Malachi 3:10–12).
In response, Ana told us that she had already prepared to sell food the next day—Sunday—just as she always did. We then offered a prayer, asking Heavenly Father to bless this poor family, which needed the mother’s income.
The following day we were surprised to see her come to church with her children. We welcomed them and asked her what had happened with the food she had prepared to sell.
“Elders, I spent last night pondering God’s promises,” she said. “He will bless me.” Then she added, “Elders, where do I pay my tithing?”
We were moved by her show of faith, and we prayed that the Lord would answer our prayers for this family.
The next evening we went by her house again. She was crying tears of gratitude because God had blessed her so greatly that day. She said she had been selling food on that corner her whole life—Monday through Sunday, 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.—and that she always had leftover items that didn’t sell. But that Monday she had sold all of her food by 1:00 p.m.
Heavenly Father had answered our prayers. The Lord continued to bless Ana, and she no longer needed to sell food on the Sabbath. Her children were soon baptized, but Ana’s husband would not consent to her baptism. Nevertheless, she remained faithful to the gospel and attended church until the day she died.
I know Heavenly Father keeps His promises when we obey His commandments with all our heart.

After the First Presidency’s announcement that the groundbreaking for the Neiafu Tonga Temple would be held on September 11, 2021, everyone who had a part to play went to work immediately under the wise guidance of our leaders from the Pacific Area and Church headquarters. It was not smooth sailing, but we witnessed the hand of the Almighty God guide us. From working on the building permit, to negotiating the environment internal assessment fees required by law, to the final preparation of the site, and to the actual temple groundbreaking ceremony, there were challenges.
An excerpt from a report prepared by Brother Tukia and Sister Linda Havea, the temple groundbreaking organizing committee coordinators, best explains this faith-promoting and miraculous sacred event.
On the night of September 10, 2021, the members were trying to complete the preparation of the temple groundbreaking site. It was raining nonstop. Even into the wee hours of the morning, it continued. However, the Saints awoke as this was the day that their forefathers had envisioned, prayed, and sacrificed for. They hurriedly flocked to Saineha, synonymous with the sun, a source of energy and spiritual healing. This was the site of the new temple.
What a great calming feeling. It was so serene that many wept silently in humility and gratitude. The Saints were seated to the right of the royal shelter. All members, choir and church leaders in the program were exposed to the elements with no shelter. The sound of the Tabernacle Choir certainly settled all despite the menacing and cumulonimbus clouds looming above. The program proceeded as planned without rain, for the clouds had receded. The wondrous moments occurred as Elder Kupu began the dedicatory prayer for the groundbreaking; the sun shone through, bathing the site with its brilliance, enhancing the Spirit that was abundant and prevailing. All wept for joy in admiration for the Omnipotent who had wondrously and gloriously revealed to ALL present that this groundbreaking was indeed, a heaven-sent undertaking!
Glory be to the Almighty, who is a “God of miracles.”5 I testify that if we allow Him, who is without beginning of days and end of years to prevail in our lives, we will continue to witness the workmanship of His hands,6 just as I have witnessed for myself His miraculous power and intervention during the sacred groundbreaking of the Neiafu Tonga Temple.

As a young child, I believed we had a prophet and that he spoke the truth; but I’m not sure I understood that the prophet was speaking to me personally. When I was a young wife and mother, my husband spent two years in the air force. We lived in military housing on Long Island, New York. While tending our young children, I often visited with neighbors who had come from all over the country. One day as a neighbor and I were talking about our beliefs, she became curious about what was different about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I told her briefly about the Restoration, and I explained that the restored Church of Jesus Christ has a living prophet today. This really seemed to pique her interest, and she wanted to know what the prophet had said. As I started to tell her about the Doctrine and Covenants and modern revelation, she said, “But what has he said lately?” I told her about general conference and that the Church had a monthly publication with a message from the prophet. Then she got really interested. I was so embarrassed to admit that I hadn’t read the current message. She concluded our conversation by saying, “You mean you have a living prophet and you don’t know what he said?” In that situation I hadn’t shown what it meant to sustain.

Sammy looked sad as he watched the pictures on TV. Floodwaters were flowing through streets and towns on the other side of Australia. Sammy thought about the boys and girls whose homes would be filled with mud. He thought about how their toys would be ruined.
Sammy went to the cupboard. He took out a shopping bag and filled it with toys he didn’t play with anymore. Sammy took the bag to Mum.
“These are for the boys and girls in the floods,” he said.
“That is very kind, Sammy,” Mum said. “The people in the floods will also need many other things.”
Sammy and his older brother Benjamin had been saving their money for a new toy. Sammy kept his money in a jar. Sammy grabbed the jar and took out all his money.
“I want to give this to the people in the floods too,” he said.
As he put the money in an envelope, Benjamin walked into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Benjamin asked.
“I’m sharing money with the people in the floods,” Sammy said.
“That’s a good idea,” Benjamin said. “I’ll share my money too.”
Mum drove Sammy and Benjamin to a mall where they could donate their money to the people in the flood.
“You are a good example, Sammy,” Benjamin said as they walked together holding their envelopes.
Sammy smiled. He felt good all over. He was the little brother, but he had been a big example.

Let me tell you of a time when my mother shared such simple truths by simply being open to having a conversation and recognizing an opportunity.

Many years ago, my mother was returning to Argentina for a visit with my brother. My mom never really liked flying, so she asked one of my sons to give her a blessing of comfort and protection. He felt prompted to also bless his grandma with special guidance and direction from the Holy Ghost to strengthen and touch the hearts of many who were desirous to learn of the gospel.

At the Salt Lake airport, my mother and brother met a seven-year-old girl who was returning home from a skiing trip with her family. Her parents noticed how long she had been talking to my mom and brother and decided to join them. They introduced themselves and their daughter as Eduardo, Maria Susana, and Giada Pol. There was a natural and warm connection to this sweet family.

Both families were excited to be traveling together on the same flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina. As their conversation continued, my mother noted that until that moment, they’d never heard about the restored Church of Jesus Christ.

One of the first questions Susana asked was “Would you tell me about that beautiful museum with the golden statue on top?”

My mom explained that the beautiful edifice was not a museum but a temple of the Lord where we make covenants with God so we can return to live with Him one day. Susana confessed to my mom that before their trip to Salt Lake, she had prayed for something to strengthen her spirit.

During the flight, my mom bore her simple but strong testimony of the gospel and invited Susana to find the missionaries in her hometown. Susana asked my mom, “How will I find them?”

My mom replied, “You can’t miss them; they are either two young men dressed in white shirts and ties or two nicely dressed young women, and they always wear a tag showing their name and also ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’”

The families exchanged phone numbers and said goodbye at the Buenos Aires airport. Susana, who since then has become my good friend, has told me many times that she felt so sad to leave my mom at the airport. She said, “Your mom glowed. I can’t explain it, but she had a brightness about her that I didn’t want to leave behind.”

As soon as Susana got back to her hometown, she and her daughter, Giada, went to share this experience with Susana’s mom, who lived just a few blocks away from their home. As they were driving, Susana happened to see two young men walking down the street dressed as my mom had described. She stopped her car in the middle of the street, got out, and asked these two young men, “Are you by chance from the Church of Jesus Christ?”

They said, “Yes.”

“Missionaries?” she asked.

They both replied, “Yes, we are!”

She then said, “Get into my car; you’re coming home to teach me.”

Two months later, Maria Susana was baptized. Her daughter, Giada, was also baptized when she turned nine. We are still working on Eduardo, whom we love no matter what.

Since then, Susana has become one of the greatest missionaries I have ever met. She is like the sons of Mosiah, bringing many souls to Christ.

Dad caught me as I was going out the door. “What’s behind your back, Son?”
“School stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Uh, marbles.”
“Since when are marbles considered school stuff?” Dad asked, holding his hand out toward me.
Reluctantly I handed him a worn leather pouch tightly packed with marbles. The drawstring was tied into a large bow that threatened to unravel at any second from the pressure of the marbles crammed inside. Bulging from the top of the bag was my favorite shooter, a green speckled moonglow with a chip out of one side.
“Why carry so many?” Dad asked. “If you plan on winning, you’d better leave a little room for the take. Right?”
I shrugged and stared at the floor. I knew Dad wanted me to agree with him, but he didn’t understand. I needed all my marbles so I’d look as impressive as possible on my first day at the new school—a city school. At the Pine Bluff country school the kid with the most marbles had always been a big shot. After hundreds of marble games I had become that kid. By the time our family moved to the city, nobody would even play me. Now if these city kids saw how many marbles I was carrying, they would realize I was somebody special.
Dad began to chew his lower lip as he stared down at me. Whenever he was going to tell me something “for your own good,” he would chew his lip. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “Mom’s been wanting some marbles to put in her aquarium. Give her a few of yours, and you can take the rest to school.”
Even after I gave him twelve of my scroungiest, beat-up marbles, my leather pouch still swelled magnificently. As I was leaving, Dad told me things might be different in the city, but I figured school was school, and playing marbles was playing marbles. What could be different about that?
A couple of blocks from home I saw a kid carrying a brown shoe box. I heard the unmistakable clackity-clack of marbles jostling against each other. Walking up behind him, I faked a loud cough and started to rummage through my marble bag.
The kid stopped walking. He turned, and I saw a round face covered with splotches of freckles. His glasses had lenses thick enough to stop bullets. His red hair was oiled and combed into a tall bump above his forehead. Eyeing my bag of marbles, he set his shoe box down. “Play you a game,” he said.
I pulled out my green moonglow. “Where do we play?” I asked.
“Right here,” he said, pointing to the ground beneath our feet.
“How can we play here? It’s all grass and cement.”
“Where do you want to play, man, up a tree?”
I couldn’t believe how dumb this guy was. “We have to play someplace where there’s dirt, or we can’t draw the circle.”
“Circle?”
“Yeah, circle. Can’t play marbles without a circle.”
The kid gave me a strange look, then suddenly he laughed.
“What’s so funny?” I asked him.
“Nobody plays marbles in a circle anymore,” he replied with a smirk, “except sissies. Maybe we’d better forget the whole thing.”
“Everybody uses a circle in Pine Bluff,” I told him.
“Pine Bluff!” He laughed. “No wonder you don’t know anything. Pine Bluff School is a school for turkeys.”
“No, it’s not!” I yelled.
“Then how come they play marbles in a circle?”
My face was burning as the kid reached down to pick up the shoe box. “Show me how they play marbles here,” I said, grabbing his arm.
“Nah,” he said. “I don’t have time.”
“You’re scared to play me.”
“Sure I am,” he said in mock fright. “Scared to death.”
“Then show me.”
“It would take too long, and there are too many rules.”
“Forget the rules,” I pleaded. “Just show me what I have to do to win.”
The kid squinted at his watch. “All right! I have time for one game before school. Let’s play sixty-six, with anything goes.”
“How do we start?” I asked, rubbing the green moonglow between my palms for good luck.
“First, count out thirty-three marbles,” he said.
“Thirty-three!”
“Yeah, that’s why it’s called sixty-six, because both of us put thirty-three marbles on the line. ’Course if you’re afraid, we could always play dolls or hopscotch.”
“I’m not afraid of you or your dumb game,” I said, grabbing a handful of marbles from my pouch. “Just keep explaining.”
“It’s easy—one of us throws out his shooter, and the other guy tries to hit it. First one to make a hit gets all the marbles.”
It sounded simple enough. I counted out thirty-three marbles. The redheaded kid shaped his marbles into a V. “What’s that for?” I asked.
“Victory,” he said with a cocky grin. Quickly I formed a B with mine. “What’s that for?” he asked.
“Baloney!”
The formalities were over. I agreed to go first and rolled my green moonglow down the sidewalk about thirty feet, feeling confident I was out of range. Then the kid walked right over to my marble without tossing his own! “Eye drops,” he said nonchalantly.
“What in the world is ‘eye drops’?” I demanded.
“I’ll show you,” he said.
I watched as he planted himself directly over my moonglow, one foot on either side. With great deliberation, he lifted his shooter until it rested against his left nostril just below his eye. Slowly he spread his thumb and index finger, allowing the marble to land squarely on top of mine.
“That isn’t fair!” I yelled. “I didn’t know anything about eye drops.”
The redheaded kid walked over to my B and began dismantling it. “You’re the one who wasn’t worried about learning the rules,” he reminded me.
I was determined to get the best of this guy. “Play me again,” I challenged.
“Count out thirty-three more marbles,” he said.
I insisted he go first. As soon as his marble quit rolling, I called out, “Eye drops,” and positioned myself the same way the freckle-faced kid had done previously.
But just as I prepared to drop my shooter, he yelled, “Covers!”
“Now what?”
“A simple defensive maneuver,” he explained, cupping his hands over his marble until it was completely hidden.
“That’s cheating!” I protested.
The redheaded kid squinted up at me. “It’s legal,” he said.
“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’m starting to figure out this crazy game.” I gave my marble a casual flip into the front yard of a brown stucco house. “You chase me awhile,” I said.
Immediately he called, “Eye drops.”
I countered with “Covers.”
He hit me with “Substitutes.”
“Substitutes?”
“That’s what I said!”
Somehow I knew I was in trouble as I watched the kid walk back to his shoe box and drop his marble inside. Then he pulled out the biggest steel shooter I ever saw in my life! It was the size of a small apple. “This is my ‘cover breaker,’” he said. “Never saw a marble stay covered when this baby cuts loose.”
He had to be bluffing. He wouldn’t cripple a guy for a few crummy marbles. I kept my moonglow covered.
The redheaded kid raised the big steelie high above his head. “Move ’em or lose ’em,” he threatened.
Bent over at his feet, I felt like a human sacrifice about to be offered up to a freckle-faced marble king.
“I’m counting to three,” the kid said. “One.” I saw him grit his teeth. “Two.” I was beginning to take him seriously. “Three!” he yelled, going up on his tiptoes to gain every available ounce of power.
Deciding I would rather lose thirty-three marbles than my fingers, I rolled sideways in sheer panic. Facedown in the grass, I waited for the sound of the big steelie smashing my moonglow to green dust. Instead, I heard laughter. The redheaded kid no longer held the big steelie over his head.
“Guess I fooled you,” he said, taking the now-familiar eye-drops position.
Realizing my mistake, I crawled frantically toward my exposed shooter, but the big steelie fell, and I was poorer by another thirty-three marbles. My moonglow was smashed!
As the redheaded kid plodded down the sidewalk toward school, his shoe box was considerably heavier, and my leather pouch looked like a collapsed lung.
Dad was sitting on the porch steps when I got home after school. He stared at my depleted marble bag. “How’d it go today, Son?” he asked.
“OK.” I wanted to tell him everything, but I was too ashamed.
“Glad to hear it.”
I was relieved that he didn’t press the issue any further, and yet I was disappointed too. He had to know something was wrong.
Until I was ready for bed, nothing more was said. Then I heard Dad coming up the stairs. He walked into my room and sat down on the bed. He was chewing his lower lip. “Learn anything today, Son?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Like what?” Dad asked.
There was a lump in my throat that wouldn’t swallow away. “I learned I had better listen to you sometimes,” I told him.
For a second I saw a strange look come over his face. He blinked a couple of times, then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a dozen wet marbles. “Might as well take these back,” he said. “Your mother says they make the fishbowl look junky. Maybe when you get that bag filled up again, you can give her some better ones.”

On my birthday one Sunday morning, my husband and I were getting ready for church when the phone rang. I answered, and the bishop said, “I know today is your birthday, but could you meet with me in my office in 30 minutes? I would like to talk with you.”
Curious, I hurried to church.
In his office, the bishop said to me, “Sister Cruz, I have a birthday present for you. The Lord is calling you to serve as Young Women president. Will you accept this calling?” I felt overwhelmed, but I accepted the calling. I was sustained and set apart that day.
When I returned home after church, I sat on my bed. The weight of responsibility hit me. I cried and felt inadequate for the work. What a responsibility to guide those young women! I was baptized when I was 22 and had never attended Young Women activities before. How could I be Young Women president?
I did the only thing I knew to do: I knelt and asked Heavenly Father for guidance in this new calling. At that moment I had an experience I will never forget. As I visualized each young woman, I understood that each was a daughter of Heavenly Father. Each needed a president who loved her and could help her understand that God loved her. In my mind I saw the names of all the less-active young women (whom I had never met), and I understood that they were also daughters of Heavenly Father and needed my attention. I felt each one’s potential.
The following months were not easy. I worked hard to get to know each young woman and to understand her needs. Together with the active young women, our presidency helped those who had been less active return to activity. I saw the hand of the Lord at work in many ways.
When I was released from my calling, I worried that perhaps I could have done more. Upon arriving home, I knelt and asked Heavenly Father if my service had been acceptable. I received a sweet feeling that He was pleased.
I thought back on that birthday when I could have turned down the calling because of all my other responsibilities. But I am the one who would have lost most by not accepting the calling. I would have lost the opportunity to learn humility, gain understanding, develop patience, and become an instrument in the Lord’s hands. But mostly I would have failed the Lord in the confidence He placed in me, and I would have failed to learn that the opportunity to serve is a gift.

Elder Brook P. Hales related the story of Sister Patricia Parkinson, who was born with normal eyesight but by age 11 had gone blind.

Elder Hales recounted: “I’ve known Pat for many years and recently told her that I admired the fact that she is always positive and happy. She responded, ‘Well, you have not been at home with me, have you? I have my moments. I’ve had rather severe bouts of depression, and I’ve cried a lot.’ However, she added, ‘From the time I started losing my sight, it was strange, but I knew that Heavenly Father and the Savior were with my family and me. … To those who ask me if I am angry because I am blind, I respond, ‘Who would I be angry with? Heavenly Father is in this with me; I am not alone. He is with me all the time.’”

And all of the Thordersons know that being different because of their values is more than all right—it’s the way to set a good example for others around you. Kurt said, “While we were growing up, Eric and I were the only LDS students in our high school, and we were in a graduating class of about 650. And then when I went to Wayne State, the only other Latter-day Saints out of 30,000 people were Eric and Dad (he works as an administrator there). It was hard, but it also made me stand up for what I believe.”

I walked into the backyard and climbed a tall, strong tree. I didn’t get very high. Being six feet tall, I figured I was already too far from the ground. I sat in my perch and pondered my fate. I wore glasses, had grown much too tall, and weighed more than necessary.
My roommate, Sally, had just left on her third date with a returned missionary. Tonight was supposed to be the start of a three-day camping trip that Sally and I had been planning for more than two months. I guess you know what happens to camping trips with roommates when a gorgeous, broad-shouldered, car-owning, worthy priesthood holder asks you out.
It wasn’t that I was jealous. I didn’t want to take from Sally; I just wanted with all my heart to know what it felt like.
I looked up into that clear night sky, stars thick and bright, and a prayer left my heart and burst from my lips. “Heavenly Father, please, oh please, I need to make friends with a boy.”
I’m not sure how long I spent praying. I do know it was one of the most heartfelt prayers I had ever offered. When I stepped down from that tree, I felt so good. It was more than just a peaceful feeling. I was excited. I almost expected my new friend to be waiting for me in the backyard!
At first I grinned at each male I met, sure he was going to grab my hand and say, “I’m here!” I got some funny looks and a few smiles, but none of the grocery clerks, paper boys, or mailmen I saw claimed me.
Gradually I simmered down. The excitement left, but the peace stayed. I finished school, got a job I liked, and found myself actively involved with the Young Adults in our stake. I was happy.
One Saturday a few of us went out into the desert to practice target shooting. Jimmy, a country cowboy at heart, took us. I rode in the back seat of his very old, very large car. Jimmy spent time with each of us setting up targets, helping us load, then teaching us to hold the guns properly. I was more awkward than the others, who had been shooting before, but the extra attention I needed paid off. On the way home, I sat in the front seat.
My three roommates were often visited by three boys from our ward, and with Jimmy, now there were four. Jimmy had become a regular. The eight of us had so much fun. We went four-wheeling in Jimmy’s new Jeep. We played football and baseball. We swam. When we went hiking, Jimmy stayed behind me all the way even though I was slower than the others. We had a great summer.
When the weather cooled and the nights lengthened, we spent more time inside. Jimmy and I had long talks. He went with me to visit my grandpa, helped me run errands, came to sacrament meeting with me, even took me to the hospital the day I broke my finger.
He held my hand after the first snowstorm so I wouldn’t fall. He put his arm around me in the movies to keep me warm. One night he wore his best clothes, bought me flowers, and took me to a dance. He held me in his arms when the music slowed, and as we walked home he kissed me.
Eight months later, sitting in our new apartment decorated with our families’ old furniture, I looked up from my book, put my cold feet in my new husband’s lap to get warm and asked, “Jimmy, what first attracted you to me?”
He looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Something told me that I should be your friend.”
My heart jumped. Tears filled my eyes. A smile started on my face and spread clear down to my toes. I put my arms around his neck and held on tight. I was holding in my arms the answer to the help I prayed for that lonely night in an old tree.

“I went a little farther that time!” Lewis exclaimed, marking where he had landed with a stick. A new house was being built next door, and six-year-old Lewis loved playing in the big piles of dirt. He especially liked to jump off the top of a pile with his brother and see who could go the farthest. Jumping was the next best thing to flying, and Lewis wanted more than anything to be able to fly. Not just to ride in a plane—he’d done that lots of times with his dad in a little four-seat airplane—he wanted to fly like a bird. He thought about it all the time.
Last Sunday, Lewis had been given a lesson in Primary about faith. Sister Jones had said that if you have enough faith, you can do anything—even move mountains! Lewis didn’t want to move a mountain—he wanted to fly over one. He believed that Heavenly Father could help him do that just as easily. Lewis didn’t hear the rest of the lesson that day because he was dreaming about his first flight. He knew exactly how it would be. He would jump off something very high and dive to the earth. Just before he hit the ground, he would pull out of the fall with his arms spread out and glide above the earth, rising higher and higher. He could almost feel the wind in his hair and see the look of surprise on his brother’s face as he flew effortlessly over his head. Yes, it was going to be truly wonderful!
“Lewis,” Mom called from the house.
“Yes, Mom?” he replied from the top of the dirt pile.
“Grandma is here and wants to see you.”
Lewis jumped one more time, marked the spot where he landed, and rushed to the house. “Hi, Grandma. How was your trip?”
“Oh, it was great fun, Lewis. I brought you something.” She held up a small pair of flight attendant wings that she had received on her flight home.
“Wow! Thanks, Grandma!” He had wings! Now he knew he could fly. He pinned them to his shirt and ran outside to the dirt pile. Sure enough, he seemed to jump a little farther and a little higher. The problem, he thought, is that this hill is too small. If I could find something higher, I’m sure I could pull out before I hit the ground.
The next day, Dad took Lewis with him to a construction show. One of the companies there was producing new playground equipment, and Lewis saw the biggest jungle gym he’d ever seen. He grinned. Today was the day he was going to fly!
While his dad was busy talking to some other builders, Lewis pulled the flight attendant wings out of his pocket and pinned them to his shirt, then raced over to the jungle gym. He climbed to the very top bar—about fifteen feet high—and yelled, “Watch this, Dad!” He jumped off, completely unafraid. On the way down, his leg caught on a bar and he crashed to the ground.
Lewis’s leg was broken, and his body was bruised and scratched.
“Are you feeling better now?” Dad asked on the way home from the hospital.
“Dad,” Lewis sobbed, “I don’t understand. In Primary, my teacher said that if I had enough faith, I could do anything.”
“I see. Lewis, you need to understand something about faith. The scriptures say that faith is things which are hoped for which are true. If I believed with all my heart that the oceans are filled with spaghetti, it still wouldn’t be true. Faith in Jesus Christ is true because He really did come and die for us and He really does love you. Faith in the scriptures is true because the Lord really commanded the prophets to write them so we could read them and learn about Jesus Christ. Heavenly Father obeys natural laws, like gravity. Can you see the difference?”
“I guess so.”
Dad continued, “You will be able to fly, Lewis, but on this earth the way you have to do it is by following the natural laws. When you get a little older, you can take flying lessons and get a pilot’s license of your own. Now let’s go home and let that leg heal.”
Today Lewis is grown-up and flies high in the sky as an airline pilot. But he still dreams that the day will come when he will be able to fly through the clouds on his own.

A few months ago, Emilio, one of the deacons in our ward, suddenly became very ill. The doctors were unable to diagnose what he had. Both he and his mother were scared because he was getting weaker and going downhill fast. His mother took him to the hospital several times but did not succeed in getting any answers.
Emilio’s mother brought him to the meetinghouse for a priesthood blessing. One of the members of the elders quorum and I, his bishop, had the privilege of blessing him, and he slept well for the first time in nights.
However, a few days later I learned that Emilio had experienced a relapse and was back in the hospital. Another brother and I quickly went to the hospital, where we were able to go into his room and visit with him. Thinking that Emilio would probably be discouraged by the downturn in his condition, I was especially uplifted by what happened next.
We talked about Jesus Christ, and I explained that the Savior has the power to surmount anything, according to His will. Emilio’s reply deeply touched our hearts: “Bishop, this is just another trial. I have faith that it will be over soon because I have faith in Jesus Christ.” We placed our hands on his head and again gave him a blessing.
After that night Emilio made an unbelievable and complete recovery. He was able to return to his daily activities and to church without difficulty.
Emilio had exercised the faith necessary for the Savior to perform the same kind of miracle He performed when He was here on earth. To me, Emilio is an example of those of whom the Lord said, “To some it is given to have faith to be healed” (D&C 46:19).

Fourteen-year-old Jason said the closing prayer at the conclusion of our Sunday School class. It had been one of my most successful lessons, and I kept my eyes shut a moment longer to add my own words of gratitude. The boys unfolded their lanky bodies from the chairs and ambled out of the classroom.
Jason paused as he passed me. “That was a good discussion, Sister Udy. It really made me think.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Jason. I enjoyed it, too. I’ll see you next week.”
I packed my lesson book and scriptures into my tote bag and made my way along the congested hallway toward the foyer.
“Sister Udy! Sister Udy!” A voice rose above the babble. I turned to see Brother Richardson, the Sunday School president, frantically waving at me as he tried to maneuver through the crowd.
“Sister Udy, I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but I haven’t had a chance,” he said as he guided me into an empty classroom. You’ve been doing a wonderful job with your Sunday School class.”
“Thank you.” I smiled.
“That’s why we feel we can ask you to take another student,” he continued. “You know that the Housman family recently moved into our ward, and we really haven’t known where to put Deedra until now. We think she would fit well into your class.”
“Deedra?” I stammered. “But she must be at least eighteen years old. Shouldn’t she be in with the adults?” Or in Primary? I thought. Anywhere but in my class.
I knew about Deedra—knew that she was intellectually impaired and that she talked out loud during the sacrament and sang all the hymns at the top of her lungs. I knew that some girls made fun of her. The boys simply ignored her. What would this eighteen-year-old girl have in common with a class of lively fourteen- and fifteen-year-old boys?
“You know that there are no other girls in my class this year,” I reminded Brother Richardson. “And the boys tend to be a little rowdy at times. Don’t you think Deedra might be more comfortable somewhere else?”
Brother Richardson smiled reassuringly. “No, no,” he said kindly. “We think that you will be the perfect teacher for Deedra.” He looked at me expectantly, then added, “Of course, it’s up to you.”
I sighed. “Of course Deedra is welcome in my class.”
Brother Richardson beamed. “I’ll tell her parents,” he said happily. “She’ll be there next Sunday.”
I knew she would. Deedra was never absent. My heart sank as I thought about the lesson I had already been preparing for the next class. How could I ever keep the boys’ interest if I had to teach on Deedra’s level too? The boys were used to lots of questions and discussion of scriptures. Deedra couldn’t even read.
Maybe she won’t like the class. I comforted myself with the thought. Then they’ll see that it is wrong for her.
The next Sunday morning dawned bright and fair, but the beautiful day failed to lighten my spirits. My prayers were perfunctory—my heart just wasn’t in them.
After Sunday School opening exercises, I hurried to my classroom. Deedra was already there, horn-rimmed glasses tilting crookedly across her freckled nose.
Deedra’s face broke into a wide grin when she saw me. “Hi, buddy,” she said as she bounced out of her chair to give me a hug. “Can I help you?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “You can move the chairs if you want. I like them in a big circle.”
She was busily moving the chairs as the boys walked in. They looked at her warily. “Here,” said Deedra, pointing to Jim. “You can sit in this one, buddy.” She set the chair down. Jim sat. One by one, Deedra assigned each of the boys a seat. Then she sat herself down, facing the boys. She smiled at me. “I did a good job,” she said.
“Yes, … thank you,” I replied. I introduced her to the subdued boys and began my lesson.
Deedra was quiet while the boys responded to the questions. The discussion became animated as the class attempted to determine the function of each member of the Godhead.
“And what does Jesus do?” I finally asked Deedra. She looked up. “He loves me,” she replied.
I stopped for a moment, stunned. “That’s right,” I said. “He does.” I slowed the pace of the lesson, aiming more questions at Deedra. She responded simply but with unerring accuracy. She knew the things that mattered. I pointed out to the boys that her answers were correct, even if they weren’t what we expected. The class ended before we knew it, and Deedra gave me a hug as she left. This time I hugged her back.
I can’t say that the following weeks were easy. Often Deedra became bored, and sometimes the boys grew restless. But gradually they loosened up and began to exchange friendly banter with Deedra, who could hold her own.
“I want to sit next to Jim,” Deedra announced one Sunday. Jim’s ears reddened as the boys teased him, but he good-naturedly made a place for her. After that, Deedra always sat with the boys instead of across from them. Whoever was her choice for the week would share his scriptures with her and be on her team if we had a game. No one ever complained. Deedra was as much a part of the class now as anyone else.
January was almost here, and most of my class would be moving on. I sought out Brother Richardson.
“Would you like me to keep her another year?” I asked.
He gently smiled at me. “You’ve done a good job with Deedra. But I’ve already spoken to her and her parents, and we think she’s ready to go on.”
A feeling of disappointment overcame me. I hadn’t realized just how much I had grown to love Deedra, with her cheerful spirit and ever-ready hug. “I’ll miss her,” I said sincerely.
“I told you that you were the perfect teacher for her,” Brother Richardson said.
“No,” I said softly. “I was the one who learned the lesson this year. It was Deedra who was the perfect teacher.”

Robert learned an important principle while serving in the military. Each unit in his squadron had a motto that had been chosen to inspire the pilots in their efforts. “Our unit motto (displayed on the side of our aircraft) was Return with Honor,” says Elder Hales. “This motto was a constant reminder to us of our determination to return to our home base with honor after we had expended all of our efforts to successfully complete every aspect of our mission.” This motto has served as a reminder of the importance of honesty and integrity in his personal and professional life. As a father, he put his arms around each of his two sons before they left to serve their missions—Stephen to England and David to Germany—and whispered, “Return with honor.” He still refers to this motto today.

For example, I started by adding my mom and sister and then added family that I knew to my family tree. When I visited extended family, I would show them my tree and ask for pictures of family that I could see. I would use my phone and take a picture of the family photos they shared so they didn’t feel like I wanted to keep the pictures that were precious to them. I went to a funeral and shared my tree and asked for pictures that I could photograph.

Soon they were pointing out people I missed on my tree who needed to be added or telling me they were out of order or the wrong relationship. One said, “I lived with your parents and have a picture of you when you were little,” and another had pictures of me from when they lived with grandparents. Sometimes I would give them a small token of appreciation for finding and bringing the pictures for me to make copies of.

Over time, more and more extended family have reached out, both with information and with photographs. This truly became a blessing in helping me build my tree for many generations and preserve my heritage for many of my ancestors I otherwise would never have known. This process can be used by anyone to help build their tree beyond what they know personally.

Their marriage was hopeless, they told me. And now they were in the final stages of preparing for divorce.
They had received marriage counseling elsewhere. But it was of a purely secular nature, and their relationship was getting worse, not better. Instead of humbling themselves and changing their behavior, they had been focusing on trivial techniques—such as liking themselves better and becoming more self-assertive—which only further justified them in their destructive behavior.
These were good people. But they had become caught up in the behavior and attitudes of a competitive world—where forcing, criticizing, controlling, and commanding are often promoted as the way to gain influence. They were blaming one another for their problems and were trying to punish and intimidate each other into changing.
I was frank with them. I tried to help them see how self-righteous they were being and how accusing their hearts were. I explained that our problems as individuals and as couples are primarily spiritual—and that these problems begin when we fail to apply gospel principles. And I told them that since we have no direct control over the behavior of our partners, we need to focus on our own hearts.
After our first visit, this couple went to the temple together. In the celestial room, each quietly prayed that our Father in Heaven would reveal to them individually what they, themselves—not their partner—had been doing wrong. In his mercy, God opened the floodgates and gave them their answers. The revelation they received humbled them and softened their hearts. Since they hadn’t attended the temple for some time, even though they lived close by, they were amazed at how freely and clearly the answers came to them and how merciful our Heavenly Father really is.
Now they could start making progress. They began to shift their focus away from blaming each other and toward their own need for repentance. They began to see that striking back at each other is the world’s way—not the Lord’s. They recognized they had not read their scriptures or genuinely prayed on a regular basis—and now they could see that these were manifestations of pride.
Their hearts were broken over the fact that they were both so self-preoccupied and self-serving and that their conflicting self-interests were destroying any possibility for oneness. And they realized that their examples were adversely affecting their children.
It was thrilling to watch this couple humble themselves and find again the love they thought they had lost.