Gospel Story Finder

Fredrick A., 17, says that when his friend Robert invited him to church, he felt the Spirit so strongly that he couldn’t deny it.
“When I got to church, the Spirit of God was sent upon me,” Fredrick says. “As I was given the Book of Mormon, I started reading it. If I don’t understand, I always ask my branch president and pray.”
Robert (left) and Fredrick have remained friends since Robert introduced him to the gospel.

It was cold! Nicole and her friends hurried into the busy café to warm up for a few minutes. As they stood inside, Nicole glanced at the menu.
“I’m going to get some hot chocolate,” she said.
“Me too,” Beth said.
Audrey looked at her watch, and Heather said, “We don’t have much time. Remember, my mom is picking us up at two o’clock.”
Nicole looked at the long line. It would sure be nice to have a cup of hot chocolate to keep her warm while they finished their Christmas shopping. “Beth and I will meet you in the clothing store next door,” she told Heather. “We won’t take long.”
Heather and Audrey left, and Beth and Nicole got in line.
“Look, they have French vanilla,” Beth said, pointing at the menu.
Nicole’s eyes brightened. “Yum! I love French vanilla hot chocolate.” But then she frowned, a little uncertain. “It doesn’t say French vanilla hot chocolate,” she said. “It just says French vanilla.” She bit her lip. “Isn’t there a French vanilla coffee too?”
Beth shrugged. When it was Nicole’s turn to order, she asked the employee about it, just in case.
“It’s hot chocolate,” the lady behind the counter assured her.
“Great!” Nicole said. “I’ll have a large French vanilla.”
Beth ordered one too, and they left the café. When they met up with Heather and Audrey, Nicole sniffed her steaming cup. She gasped. “I think this is French vanilla coffee!”
Beth took a sip. “I think so too. But oh well. It’s nice and hot. I’m getting all warmed up.”
“But it’s coffee!”
“So?”
Nicole told her friend, “I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’m not supposed to drink coffee.”
“You can drink coffee this one time,” Heather said impatiently. “You don’t have to be perfect every second of the day. We won’t tell anyone. Just come on. We need to hurry.”
Nicole could see that the line in the café was now even longer, and they didn’t have much time left to shop. But she knew what she needed to do. “I’m going to exchange this for hot chocolate,” she said firmly. “You guys go ahead. I’ll meet you at the toy store.”
She started to walk away alone, but Audrey caught up to her. “I’ll wait with you,” she said. Audrey was a Latter-day Saint too.
As the girls stood in line, Audrey said, “I’m glad you didn’t drink the coffee.”
Nicole smiled. “Me too.”
When Nicole explained to the lady behind the counter that the drink was actually coffee, the lady apologized and exchanged it for hot chocolate. Then Nicole and Audrey hurried through the cold to catch up with their friends. Nicole felt warm inside, but not just from the hot chocolate. She knew she had chosen the right. Despite what her friends had said about no one ever knowing, Heavenly Father knew. And she felt He would be proud of her.

Alex’s testimony was strengthened further following a dream he had in which he was called on a full-time mission. He began preparing but didn’t wait until he was 19 to begin sharing the gospel, starting with his own family.
“Alex always prayed for and encouraged his family,” says Bishop Sayas. “And he would always encourage his older brothers to attend church. The effort to bring his family back succeeded because of Alex.”
“It was Alex who was always working with us and with ward members on our behalf,” Carmen says. “They told us he was always praying for his parents to return to church. We’re grateful he didn’t give up on us.”
If Latter-day Saints are good examples, Alex says, others will eventually take notice. “If we are happy and content in the Church, others are going to want to partake of our happiness. If we endure and move forward, miracles can occur.”

For some kids one night a week of Mutual is enough, but not for Claudine Miller of Sandy, Utah. Besides going to her own Mutual night on Wednesday, Claudine also volunteered to help with her region’s handicapped Mutual every Thursday night.
One of Claudine’s most memorable times with the girls was on “Cinderella Night,” she says. The Mutual girls dressed up in fancy dresses and learned how to put on makeup and fingernail polish. “It really helped them feel pretty,” says Claudine.
Another great experience came when Claudine helped the handicapped Mutual do baptisms for the dead in the Jordan River Temple. “It was really neat,” she said. “The Spirit was so strong!”
Her service project ended up lasting two years, but the time flew by for Claudine. “It made my testimony grow so much to feel their spirit and hear them say thank you and express their love for me,” she says. “When I serve I feel like I’m doing it for Christ, and it makes me feel really good.”

At the end of my second year playing college football, we had a coach who was not a member of the Church. He didn’t understand why young men served missions, and he discouraged us from going. But a certain number of players committed to serve missions anyway. Thanks to the good examples around me, I was one of them.
Looking back, deciding to serve a mission turned out to be a wonderful blessing. It was one of the greatest decisions I’ve made in my life, and it contributed so much to the blessings and the testimony that I have now. I know that the Lord’s hand was in all of the decisions I made throughout my life that allowed me to be influenced for good.

My parents were wonderful examples of love and nurturing. They loved the gospel and lived the gospel, and were in my mind perfect examples of Christlike people. They loved their neighbors and took care of them. We had a small farm with lots of chickens, a cow, and a horse. We were not in a wonderful financial condition ourselves, but we never went without food. As a young child I remember many instances of people who were too poor to pay for their eggs. I remember my mother saying, “It’s OK, you don’t need to pay for the eggs today.” And, “Why don’t you take this chicken home with you and have a good chicken dinner?” Wonderful Primary teachers also taught me many good things. My memory of names is very poor, and yet these people’s names are engraven on my soul. I think there is a cement of love that permanently binds such people’s names to our hearts and our minds. Most of all, I remember their love toward me. My Primary teachers demonstrated that love in lots of ways. I remember them coming over to see me when I was sick. If I ever missed Primary, they were there to find out why and to check on me.

When I was a very young boy I had pneumonia, and both my lungs filled up with fluid. My father asked me if I wanted a priesthood blessing. I told him I did. I remember asking him to call my uncle to come. When they placed their hands on my head and through the holy Melchizedek Priesthood called down a blessing of heaven, I felt different. I felt something flow into me, and I knew that the priesthood was very real. The doctor had told my mother that I was in very serious condition, but the next morning I felt great. My mother took me back to the doctor, and he checked my lungs. They were completely empty of fluid.

I would like to tell you children that I love you. I think about you all the time. I want you to know that I personally pray for you, and that I care about what is happening in your lives. I have great hopes for you. This world is just as beautiful now as when I was growing up, and I hope you see the beauty around you. I know that the Savior cares about every child individually. I want you to know that. He knows you personally and cares about each one of you dearly, deeply. He wants you to succeed and be happy. I know this Church is true. If you live the commandments, you will always feel good, and the Lord will bless you.

Topsy Turvey Turtle was crawling slowly down the path. He looked at the big black pot over the fire. “Whose stew?” he asked.
“Mine,” answered Rimsey Rabbit. “I wouldn’t call it stew yet, though. So far it’s only water.”
“I have some potatoes we could add to it,” offered Topsy Turvey Turtle.
“Thank you.”
Topsy Turvey Turtle and Rimsey Rabbit chopped up the potatoes and added them to the boiling water. As they sat down to wait for the potatoes to cook, Missy Mouse scurried towards them.
“Whose stew?” she asked.
“Ours,” answered Rimsey Rabbit. “I brought the pot and the water, and Topsy Turvey Turtle added the potatoes.”
“Well, I have been to the market to buy these lovely white gloves, and while I was there, I bought some fresh, crisp carrots. Shall I add them to your stew?”
“Oh, yes, please!” said Rimsey Rabbit. “I love carrots.”
After Missy Mouse added the carrots to the stew pot, the three sat down to visit. While they were chatting, Sweetie Skunk waddled down the path.
“Whose stew?” she asked.
“Ours,” answered Rimsey Rabbit. “I brought the pot and the water, Topsy Turvey Turtle added the potatoes, and Missy Mouse donated the carrots.”
“Oh, but you need some seasoning.” Sweetie Skunk took a packet of salt and a packet of pepper out of her pretty sequin purse and added them to the stew. As she was putting the lid back on the pot, Belushy Bear lumbered out of the woods.
“Whose stew?” he asked.
“Ours,” answered Rimsey Rabbit. “I brought the pot and the water, Topsy Turvey Turtle added the potatoes, Missy Mouse donated the carrots, and Sweetie Skunk put in the salt and pepper.”
“You need an onion for stew,” Belushy Bear boomed in his deep voice. “May I add an onion to your stew?”
“Of course,” replied Rimsey Rabbit.
So Belushy Bear pulled an onion out of his backpack and added it to the stew. Not long afterward, Polly Pig sniffed and snuffled her way into the clearing.
“Whose stew?” she asked.
“Ours,” answered Rimsey Rabbit. “I brought the pot and the water, Topsy Turvey Turtle added the potatoes, Missy Mouse donated the carrots, Sweetie Skunk put in the salt and pepper, and Belushy Bear brought the onion.”
“Sounds very tasty, but you need some green beans and peas for your stew. I have some that I could add, if I may,” suggested Polly Pig.
“Beans and peas are very tasty,” said Topsy Turvey Turtle.
“Yes,” everyone agreed. “Please add them to the stew.”
Polly Pig carefully flung her feather boa (scarf) over her shoulder so it wouldn’t get into the stew, then tossed the beans and peas into the pot.
By this time there was such a gathering that it had become a party. Topsy Turvey Turtle played his flute, and they all began to dance. Everyone was laughing and talking so loudly that Hilary Hen had to shout to get anyone to notice her.
“Whose stew?” she hollered.
“Ours!” everyone shouted over the music. Topsy Turvey Turtle stopped playing so that Rimsey Rabbit could explain who had brought what. When he finished, Hilary Hen looked into the pot.
“Would you like some flour to thicken your stew?” she asked. “I have some that I would be happy to donate.”
“Yes, please,” everyone else agreed.
Hilary Hen added the flour to the stew very carefully so that she wouldn’t get her newly polished shoes all dusty.
“I think it’s finally stew,” said Rimsey Rabbit, peering into the pot.
Everyone crowded around. The clearing filled with hungry murmurs of “It certainly looks like stew” and “It smells like stew.”
Rimsey Rabbit dished up steaming bowls of it for everyone, they sat down at the table, and he said a blessing. Then, just as they were about to start eating, they noticed Ragamuffin Raccoon watching them from the edge of the clearing. His clothes were torn and worn but very clean. He looked hungry. “Whose stew?” he asked.
“Ours,” answered Rimsey Rabbit. “I brought the pot and the water, Topsy Turvey Turtle added the potatoes, Missy Mouse donated the carrots, Sweetie Skunk put in the salt and pepper, Belushy Bear brought the onion, Polly Pig added the green beans and peas, and Hilary Hen donated the flour to thicken it.”
“Oh,” said Ragamuffin Raccoon sadly. “I don’t have anything for your stew.” He started back into the forest.
“Wait!” cried Rimsey Rabbit.
“Yes, wait!” shouted Hilary Hen.
“We don’t have a guest,” suggested Belushy Bear.
“And we need a guest,” agreed Sweetie Skunk.
“Will you be our guest?” asked Polly Pig.
“You can sit between us,” invited Topsy Turvey Turtle and Missy Mouse, making room for him.
Rimsey Rabbit served up a delicious bowl of the savory stew for Ragamuffin Raccoon, and he joined them at the table. The stew and the company were so good that everyone had second helpings.

It was a cold, blustery Sunday afternoon. I was away from home serving in the South African army, and the 10 men of our section had gathered in our tent to visit and relax after having just completed some chores. Unfortunately, much of the conversation became crude, as often happens among young men in such circumstances.
I was uncomfortable and thought about leaving. My eyes turned toward the tent door, which was flapping wildly in the wind and failing to hold back the chill of winter. The sight immediately convinced me it would be foolish to leave, so I decided to remain inside and read my scriptures. Although it had not been uncommon for me to read from them in the presence of these men, on this day it would prove to be difficult. The discussion soon took a turn for the worse as my friend, something of a ringleader in the group, began telling some dirty stories.
My immediate impulse was to object out loud. However, I was checked by the thought that others might consider me self-righteous and accuse me of trying to spoil their fun. After a few troubling moments, I decided to do the only thing I thought possible under the circumstances: shut my ears and concentrate on my reading. This approach worked somewhat. Yet I could not shrug off a feeling of uneasiness.
Time has a way of clouding our memories, and within a few weeks I forgot about the experience. Then, two years later, my friend did something that brought the memory of that day back into focus. We were in the presence of a number of soldiers who were drinking beer. In the group was a man I didn’t know. He began teasing me for not joining them in drinking a little alcohol. My friend rose to my defense and added with an earnestness that surprised me, “Chris Golden is the only true Christian in our group.” Others who knew me joined my friend in defending me, which silenced my critic.
Later, as my friend and I walked back toward our foxhole on a gray, half-moonlit night, he suddenly stopped and looked at me with a seriousness I had not been accustomed to during our friendship. He recalled the event of earlier that evening and said, “I meant what I said. In fact, I have never met an individual who has been more true to his faith in God than you, Chris!”
This was unexpected. Even though I had always tried to live the gospel, I felt I had not done more than many Latter-day Saints would have done in similar circumstances, and I had always tried to do it without drawing attention to myself.
Still, he had more to say: “You have let me down only once.” My shock at his matter-of-fact accusation was matched only by the speed with which my mind raced through all of the events we had shared together. I finally remembered that blustery, cold Sunday two years earlier. My friend’s words exposed painful memories of a day I would rather have forgotten.
He continued, “Do you remember that cold Sunday afternoon when we were sitting inside our tent and telling stories, some of which I now feel quite embarrassed about?”
I nodded a little numbly in acknowledgment. Standing opposite him, I hoped that the shadows of the night hid my discomfort.
He said, “While I was talking, I had been silently praying that you would ask me to stop telling those dirty stories—but you did nothing.”
During the long silence that followed his stinging condemnation, a deep sense of disappointment welled up within me. I had let not only him down, but I had failed the Lord—and myself.
Ever since that day, I have tried not to make the same mistake. I was taught an important lesson about the true meaning of the Lord’s command to “let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 5:16). Observing that “no man can serve two masters” (Matt. 6:24), the Savior counseled us, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness” (Matt. 6:33).

You know what makes me smile most? When Mama says she called me her little china doll—I was a baby then. I don’t remember much about that but I remember some kids saying, “Cindy, Cindy, Cindy, yeah, yeah, yeah,” and making funny faces, and Mama shooing them away and then holding me against her and crying. I don’t understand it yet.
I remember when a strange man came to our house when the chapel was finished. He was from Salt Lake.
“He’s an apostle of God,” Daddy told me. I stood and stared at him and pinched his arm until Mama pulled me away.
“Don’t bother Brother Kirkham, Cindy,” she said.
“It’s all right, Sister Abbott,” he said. His eyes twinkled and he lifted me onto his lap. He put one hand on my hand.
“Cindy’s no bother.” He smiled, and I felt something warm inside of me. “Brother and Sister Abbott, this spirit is so special in God’s eyes,” he went on, “that she was sent to earth for her mortal body in such a way that she cannot be tempted by this world. She will return to God as pure as she came. You have been chosen to take care of this special spirit. Try to understand her for she certainly holds hands with God.”
Mama didn’t cry as much after the apostle went away, and Daddy began to whistle. The children didn’t say, “Cindy, Cindy, Cindy, yeah, yeah, yeah” anymore. They took my hand and said, “Come and play with us, Cindy.”

“I appreciate the part in For the Strength of Youth that says we need to dress appropriately,” says María Alejandra Cabeza de Vaca, 12. “One day at school we were allowed to dress any way we wanted. I felt really bad because some of my friends dressed immodestly. I said to one of them, ‘Tomorrow I’m going to bring you something that will help you a lot.’ I gave her a copy of For the Strength of Youth. She read it and said she felt it was true and didn’t want to dress immodestly anymore. It’s good to share what we have so the world knows the good things we’re learning.”

“Visits to this house are certainly a waste of time,” my visiting teaching companion said as we knocked on the weather-beaten door of a small and sagging house located behind another house. “We never find anyone home.”
I glanced at her and nodded, as the peeling paint dug deep into my knuckles with the repeated firm raps; but we lingered, hoping today might be different. It wasn’t, and we finally walked back along the heavily overgrown path to the street.
“Well, we’re really (see Matt. 5:41) trying to see this woman,” I said as we climbed into the car. “Even locating her place was a monumental accomplishment.”
Hidden from view by a larger house in front of it, the shabby little place had been difficult to find when we had made our first visit six months earlier. Altered ward boundaries had brought a few new families into our ward from another ward, and this sister had been added to our district. When the address seemed incorrect, we had persisted, and after stopping at two service stations and inquiring at several doors, we had finally followed the overgrown path and discovered the small house. But that discovery was followed only by disappointing silence.
Since no telephone number showed on Judy Kearns’s information card, we had checked the directory service, only to learn that she had an unlisted number. A look at the ward records showed us that she was an inactive convert of three years who was supporting two small children by herself.
With each visit we had left a friendly note asking her to telephone us, but there was no response. We had even left some fruit at her door and had stopped by on a weekend, but we were always met by empty silence.
“Just another lost cause,” I thought as we drove down the street toward home, but my conscience nagged. Had we really gone the extra mile? What was the extra mile? By gospel standards, it was not just filling an assignment, I remembered, but caring enough to magnify an opportunity to successful fulfillment. True, we had put our toes into the extra mile, but that was only a tiny distance, and full steps could be taken.
That night, after four telephone calls, I managed to locate the visiting teacher from Judy’s previous ward. The information I got was vague, but I did get the unlisted telephone number. As I hung up, a little stirring of excitement lifted my spirits, and I eagerly dialed her number, only to be met again with the disappointment of prolonged, hollow, unanswered ringing. I tried again the next day and evening, but with no success.
While I was on my way home from a late-afternoon dental appointment several days later, the thought flashed into my mind that Judy, too, might be on her way home. It was the end of the normal working day, and she must go home once in a while. Would she resent a visit at such an inconvenient time? On a quick impulse I swung the car in her direction and decided to take a chance. Stopping my car at the curb and looking down the long driveway, I could see the usual empty car stall, so I switched off the motor to wait. When twenty-five minutes had ticked by I shifted nervously, knowing my own family would be arriving home wondering where Mom and the usual dinner aroma was.
Uneasily I waited another fifteen minutes and was just getting ready to leave when an old, weather-beaten Volkswagen pulled into the driveway and filled the stall. By the time Judy had unloaded two small children from the car and located her house key, I was on the porch explaining who I was and expressing delight in finally having the opportunity to meet her. She responded with a cool, uncomfortable attitude, but my friendliness won and she invited me into her small living room.
I initially centered my attention on her young son and daughter, while they showed me their art work from nursery school and described in detail the skinned knee under Gary’s bandage. This gave Judy a chance to relax and observe me. Slowly she warmed up to my interest in her children, and she hesitantly began sharing some of her struggles to protect them from the ravages of a shattered marriage. I learned that her husband had left her and the children to find what he called his “personal freedom.” In her determination to survive, she began working at a job that did not pay much and was taking night classes to become a dental assistant. She had placed the children in a neighborhood christian church school, and was attending Sunday services there as well. It really didn’t matter where they went to church, she said, as long as they went.
My visit was short, but I had established a relationship and made an appointment for another visit on her day off. At the door, I looked straight into her eyes and bore my testimony to the truthfulness of the gospel, and begged her not to deprive her precious children of the chance to share in its beauty. Her eyes filled with tears and I squeezed her hand as I left.
Anxious to take another step for Judy, I tried to communicate with her home teacher. After three telephone calls devoted to locating someone with the latest list of assignments, I learned that the ward executive secretary would be the one with whom to talk. He wasn’t home when I called, and after repeated attempts all evening, I finally gave up.
Two nights later, I tried again, only to find he had left her records at church and that I should call the clerk’s office in a few nights to get the information. I called as suggested, but no one answered, and I began wondering if it really was important to contact the home teacher.
My visiting teaching companion was delighted when she learned I had actually made an appointment with Judy, and she brought new enthusiasm to our efforts as we approached the little house in the rear. Judy was waiting for us and received, with appreciation, the still warm cookies we had baked for her. The first part of our visit was light and friendly, but then Judy began sharing her fears and concerns for her children, the devastating feelings of inadequacy she had, and the agony of her financial struggles. We offered sympathy and dried her tears, but I knew more must be done. At the door I asked about her home teacher and learned she had never seen one since coming into our ward boundary. I was indignant! How could six months have passed without an assignment?
Sunday morning I was at church early to talk with the executive secretary. On investigation, we found that Ray Greer, a responsible, dedicated elder, was Judy’s assigned home teacher. I was baffled, and tried to locate him at church, only to learn he was on a two-week vacation. I was amazed at how many obstacles cluttered this extra mile I was trying to walk and I determined not to let them stop me. With that in mind, I contacted Ray on the day he arrived home. As I asked my questions, he looked at me in blank confusion. He knew nothing of Judy Kearns, or of an assignment to be her home teacher, and we quickly realized that the communication chain had dropped a link someplace along the way. I handed him Judy’s unlisted number, gave him notes on my information, and told him my urgent concern for her. He expressed appreciation for my help and seemed eager to correct the situation.
In a few short weeks the extra mile had turned into a miracle mile. It was the miracle of God’s organized plan in operation, the miracle of dedicated men honoring their priesthood, the miracle of women who care. It was thrilling to see the process in full operation, to see people eagerly following the Lord’s outlined programs. It was exciting to know that I belonged to his church.
Ray not only had an immediate visit with Judy, but he also invited her to share dinner and home evening with his family that week. At that gathering the children responded to each other, and soon Judy was enjoying the deep interest of Ray’s wife, who offered to come and drive them all to Sunday School. Judy was hesitant, but the children were eager, and she finally agreed.
Coming back to church gave Judy a new awareness of the importance of the restored gospel, and before leaving she had met the bishop, talked with the Relief Society president, and agreed to let one of the Primary officers pick up her children from nursery school to attend Primary. When the bishop learned that Judy would soon be a trained dental assistant and was concerned about a job, he asked the ward employment director to start looking for dentists who might be prospective employers. By the time Judy was certified, he had three good interviews waiting. She was offered all three jobs and chose the highest salary offer.
A few weeks later the Relief Society president visited Judy to request her help in giving some information about dental care to the night Relief Society. Judy responded and enjoyed meeting other working sisters who shared many of her same problems. She became a steady supporter of Relief Society. Then the bishop decided it was time for a Church calling. Junior Sunday School seemed to fit her schedule best, and in a short time Judy was one of its outstanding teachers.
Then Ray Greer, who had been concentrating on finding her a better place to live within the ward boundary, found an excellent home for them. While the elders moved her belongings, the night Relief Society put paper on the shelves and the Sunday School officers prepared food to make it a party. Judy had become special to a lot of people and a very vital part of our ward.
On the fast Sunday when Judy stood to bear her testimony for the first time, the chapel was especially quiet as we all listened closely. She humbly acknowledged her new-found security in the knowledge that the Lord walked with her and that his gospel brought the serenity to overcome fear and inadequacy. Tears of gratitude flowed down her cheeks as she expressed love for all those who had helped lift her life with their caring. As she finished, most of us reached for our handkerchiefs and sensed the elation of shared victory. Wiping my eyes, I marveled at the beautiful process that had brought about Judy’s transformation. And I knew, incredible as it seemed, that it had all begun with some meager efforts to go the extra mile in my visiting teaching assignment.
I realized that day with a new clarity that, insignificant as we may feel in the service of God, each of us possesses the ability to put His great plans into operation, to release marvelous power that changes and builds lives, to provide the outlet for dedicated, vibrant service. But this tremendous potential can move ahead only when we create the momentum, when we release the dams and allow God’s magnificent glory to go forward and make the extra mile a miracle mile!

My fingers clenched the steering wheel as I stared anxiously at the red light. When it finally changed to green, I sped forward only to wait at another seemingly endless stoplight. I was still 10 minutes away from the lesson with the sister missionaries that was supposed to have started 5 minutes ago. If I had been a wiser mother, I would have predicted the 15-minute tantrum my almost-three-year-old daughter erupted into as we headed out the door, but I hadn’t. Yes, the world would go on if I was late, but since I was trying to do something good, didn’t I deserve at least some of the traffic lights to work in my favor? As I waited impatiently at yet another stoplight, I could feel my frustration tightening into anger. “I’m trying to do something good; trying my best! Where is the help I need?”
Eight months after my fourth miscarriage and just several weeks after my stressful drive to meet the sister missionaries, I was peacefully waiting at a stoplight on my way home when my answers came. As I watched the cars stopped next to me and the cars making their way down the road ahead of me, I caught an eternal perspective of my life. I suddenly realized that all that mattered in my journey was that I stay on the path that would take me back to my heavenly home. How many “stoplights” I waited at would have no effect on my destination. How I responded to them would.
I began to cherish every stoplight in my life, both metaphorical and literal. Instead of wasted time, each became an opportunity to acquire patience and to gain perspective that comes only through waiting. Just as every red traffic light is paired with a green light in a different direction, I found that every stoplight in my life opened an avenue for growth, just not necessarily in the way I had been planning to grow right then. Instead of dwelling on the disappointments, I began to delight in the opportunity for progress that every unexpected turn of events provided.

I began preparing for full-time missionary service when I was five years old. I remember going to church with my grandparents because my mom was not active and my dad wasn’t a member. One Sunday I came home and told my mom, “Next Sunday you have to go with me to church. My friend Juanito takes his mom and dad, and I don’t, so my friends are going to start thinking I don’t have a mom and dad.”
Well, when Sunday came, I had forgotten about it, and Mom wasn’t about to remind me. When she took me to my grandparents’ so they could take me to church, I reminded her that she said I could take her with me. She made some excuse and said she couldn’t go with me that Sunday—but maybe next Sunday. I know she said that so I wouldn’t bother her, and she probably figured I’d forget about it. But when Saturday came around, I reminded her that she had to go to church with me. I helped her pick out a nice dress to wear and took her to church that Sunday. She’s been going with me ever since.

Growing up, I loved watching how Grandmother’s hens would gather their chickens under their wings during storms to keep them safe and protected. This image became more important to me after reading about it in the Book of Mormon (see 3 Nephi 10:4–6). As a young adult, my bishop and his wife, who traveled a lot for their business, told me that they shared a Book of Mormon with someone on every trip they took.
That inspired me. I admired them, and their examples touched my heart. I decided that if I ever got the chance to travel outside of Utah, USA, I would follow their example and share a Book of Mormon each time.
As a cheerleader for Brigham Young University, I traveled frequently with the cheerleading team. Before my first trip, I bought a Book of Mormon and wrote my testimony in it. I wanted to develop the courage to share what I valued most with others: my testimony and the Book of Mormon. I wanted to be like my bishop and his wife. I wanted to be like Jesus Christ. I wanted to help gather others and help them to come unto Him.
I quickly learned that if I prayed before each trip to be led to the one who needed it, a person would show up at the right time and the right place for me to make sharing the Book of Mormon natural and easy. The more I practiced, the easier my sharing became. My journeys became more meaningful for me. I was always thrilled to find Heavenly Father’s blessed recipient of this sacred testament of Christ.
When I traveled, I pondered, “Where should I go to find the one whom Heavenly Father is sending me to this time? What can I say to him or her to convey how precious the Book of Mormon is to me?” My thoughts and actions became focused outside of my own needs and entertainment, and I felt increased love for everyone I met. I tried to look at them through the Savior’s eyes. I prayed for them to accept the divine gift that Heavenly Father had sent me to offer them.
I was sad when my senior year came to an end. Being a cheerleader for BYU was a lifelong dream for me. I would have enjoyed the incredible experience to cheer no matter what, but the opportunity to share a copy of the Book of Mormon on each cheerleading trip enriched my life in beautiful, unexpected ways.
Sharing the Book of Mormon was a valuable and easy way to add an extra layer of meaning to my university experience. I know that the people with whom I shared the Book of Mormon were specifically guided to receive it. I also know that into the incredible tapestry of my life, Heavenly Father wove a loving and sweet tender mercy: He allowed me to feel His love for His children in a special way every trip I took.
After I graduated, I decided to always continue looking for someone with whom I can share my testimony. Over time, I developed greater ability and comfort with sharing my testimony. I learned to no longer fear sharing it. I believe everyone can become more comfortable sharing their testimony with practice and by asking for divine help.
Choosing to follow the examples of my good bishop and his wife made my life more meaningful in many ways. It taught me to see that the Lord is aware of every single one of His children. He loves us and is eager to gather us all under His wing. What a blessing to understand the beautiful imagery that He uses when He describes His gathering. He gathers us as a hen gathers and tenderly protects her chickens.

On one occasion, a missionary in the final week of his mission reminded me that I had given him clearance two years previously to serve a mission. The clearance had been extended with some reservations on my part because his life before his mission had been dotted with transgressions. He said, “You allowed me to go into the field after due repentance and after I promised that I would be strictly obedient and would work diligently. I can assure you that I have worked hard and have obeyed every rule.”

Then he said something very significant. “I will always wish I had never done those things in the first place. But I feel that my sins have been forgiven. I feel perfectly clean.” He had been cleansed through selfless service and by developing a close association with the Holy Spirit. He had been through the refiner’s fire, and impurities had been burned away.

“One of our favorite family activities,” Sister Cannon recalled, “was to go for a ride in our car. We would drive through the countryside and enjoy its beauty together.
“My family really enjoyed holidays. We could hardly wait for a holiday because it meant that we would go somewhere special. We would travel to the canyons, to the lakes, or to a resort such as Como Springs. These places were usually quiet and not very busy.
“Christmas was extremely special too. We weren’t allowed to go into the living room to see what Santa Claus had brought until Dad had gone in and made a fire and got things ready. Then we’d all go in together. It was a Christmas Day tradition in our neighborhood to go from one house to another to visit each other after family gifts had been opened. We spent most of the day visiting.
“Music has been important to us as a family. My father’s father was Ebenezer Beesley, who composed the music for ‘High on the Mountain Top,’ ‘Let Us Oft Speak Kind Words,’ ‘Sing We Now at Parting,’ ‘Tis Sweet to Sing the Matchless Love’ and other hymns in the Church hymnal. Although Grandfather Beesley died before I was born, I have always been very proud of him.
My mother’s parents lived about two blocks down the hill from us, and we visited often. I felt close to them. They were both musicians and sang in the Tabernacle Choir. My grandmother was a soloist. My mother was also a fine singer; she sang for performances in the Salt Lake Theater.
“I took piano lessons for many years. It has always been a blessing in my life to be able to play the hymns and Primary songs.”
Sister Cannon, who has served as a counselor in the General Primary Presidency for the past four years, previously served on the general board for many years. She remembers very well attending Primary as a child. “Of course, Primary was on a weekday then,” she said, “and I remember being a Zion’s Girl, a Lark, a Bluebird, and a Seagull. I had loving teachers, and I enjoyed going to Primary.
“I remember a teacher telling us about the Book of Mormon. She wanted us to understand it thoroughly, so she had us act out the time when Nephi and his brothers went back to Jerusalem for the brass plates. We learned a lot by reenacting such events. Of course, music always stands out—I will remember those Primary songs forever.
“My father was the greatest influence on me. He was such an example of one who quietly serves! He would sit back and listen to everybody’s opinion and then make a wise judgment. One day I decided I didn’t want go to sacrament meeting. My father wasn’t alarmed. He only said, ‘Just remember that when you don’t go once, it’s easier not to go the next time. That’s how we can fall into bad habits. I would suggest that you go every time, and then you won’t have to keep remaking that choice.’ That’s all it took. I didn’t argue with him, and I didn’t feel unhappy about going to church that day—or any other day. And l’ve always remembered that advice when I’ve been tempted.
“My message to children is to see the great blessings that come from service in the Church. If you try to obey your parents, it will be easier to answer the calls that come from Church leaders when you are older. By doing so, you will receive opportunities for growth that you can’t get any other way. I know how many times I have felt that the things I’ve been asked to do were way beyond my ability, and yet, when I tried to do them, l’ve succeeded. The Lord teaches us and helps us to grow. As we serve, we are blessed.”

I rolled over and threw back my sheets. Why wasn’t I asleep yet? The house had been dark for hours while I was still lying here, wide awake. I gave up on sleeping and walked over to my window. From here I could easily see the city stretching out from my house to the desert, and the desert stretching out from the city to the horizon.
From the windowsill, I looked over the city. This was the first time I’d watched it so closely, and though it was dark, I seemed to see it more clearly than ever before. I could trace streetlights shining along roads and traffic lights signaling at intersections. Lights glowed from houses, blazed from signs, and flickered from cars.
As I stared at the city I was amazed by it all: by all the life happening under those lights, by the civilization symbolized by those lights, by the progress that had created those lights. Except when using candles or fires, our ancestors had to go to bed when the sun went down. But we have harnessed energy to light our streets, power our ovens, run our TVs and telephones and toasters. What could be more miraculous?
Even as I thought about those triumphs, I looked out past where the city ended in darkened mesas and extinct volcanoes and then up to the sky, where millions of stars twinkled and sparkled and glittered in the heavens. Starlight came from billions of miles away and was hundreds or even thousands of years old. It didn’t need to be turned on or transmitted by wires. And it was more beautiful than any lights display could ever be.
The city lights, which took thousands of us to create, didn’t begin to compare with what Heavenly Father had made. Thinking about the vastness of what I was seeing, I expected to feel myself drop to insignificance. Instead I had a feeling that I was Heavenly Father’s daughter. He knew I was sitting in a little bedroom looking at the sky and thinking about Him. And I knew that even though He created so many worlds and galaxies, He cared about me.
I stayed by the window for a long time. When I got back to bed, I was filled more with feelings than thoughts: feelings of amazement and love, excitement and peace.

In February 2022, Sister Basilisa Nadreke Lotawa was asked by the Sigatoka Branch president to serve as a temple and family history specialist. Basilisa’s job was to urge her congregation to lift their spiritual eyes to the light of the temple and to prepare themselves for temple worship. She also had to learn how to do genealogical research and then teach her fellow Saints how to identify their deceased ancestors and perform proxy temple ordinances on their behalf.
Basilisa, a young mother of three, shook her head and laughed. “I knew nothing about doing family history—nothing . . . and I’m too young to do it.” Still, wanting to serve the Lord, she sought the help of an experienced genealogist and was soon able to assist her branch members. With a new conviction and passion for family history, Basilisa expressed: “I am so blessed and honoured to participate in this glorious work. It has been marvelous, tremendous! I have seen miracles and wonders. The Lord provided a way for me to do the work and to help my branch.”
With young children in tow, Basilisa spent many hours at the computer in her chapel helping others to extend the branches of their family trees. She invited them—adults and youth—to find five deceased family members who needed proxy baptisms. Branch members caught her enthusiasm and found two hundred ancestors!
As for Basilisa, there is no doubt that her love for the temple and family history work—even at this busy stage of her life—will continue to bless her. She said: “I feel the same joy doing this [work] that I felt when I served my mission.” She and her branch now keep their eyes fixed firmly on the holy temple.

I’m grateful for the example of a father who, as a busy executive of a great supermarket chain, still found the time to demonstrate by his concern that groceries were less important than his boy.

Like many young men, I once had a paper route; and I had to get up early in the morning to deliver them. One morning I woke up and looked outdoors to see one of those torrential Arkansas downpours. I thought we were in for another flood! As I prepared to go out in that rain, my father came into the room dressed in his business suit. “Get in the car, Paul,” he said. “I’ll drive you around your route this morning.” This meant that he would have to go without his own breakfast.

On that morning, in addition to the heavy rain, the papers came late. By the time we had them delivered, it was considerably past the hour that my father had to be to work. And on this particular morning he had scheduled a very important board meeting.

He arrived at the meeting late, walked into the board room, and announced, “I’m sorry I’m late, gentlemen, but I had to deliver my papers this morning.”

Do you think that there was ever any doubt in my mind as to my father’s greatest concern? Interestingly, I don’t recall too many lessons my parents verbally taught, but their example is still a part of me till this day.

In Cali, Colombia, a few days ago, the mission president visited one of our Church meetings. At the start of the meeting a seven-year-old boy came up on the stand and sat next to him. He was not on the program; he just wanted to be there. When the meeting was nearly over he strode to the pulpit and bore his testimony.

When he finished, he went back and sat next to the president. The two exchanged glances. The mission president smiled approval. The young boy smiled back. In those dark eyes was a message of love and security. Here was someone who knew he belonged.

Later it was learned the boy had spent his earlier life as an orphan. A couple in the ward had taken him in and were raising him as their own. The whole ward was his home, and he was blossoming in this atmosphere of acceptance.

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.)