Gospel Story Finder

I recently had a former ward member ask me for help in dealing with some personal issues. She had moved to a new ward and was not sure if she wanted to go to her new bishop for guidance. I shared with her what I have shared many times since being released, which was that while I was happy to assist, I no longer held the keys that a bishop holds and that those keys could be crucial to providing the support she needed. I suggested that she speak with her bishop. I visited with her two weeks later, and she said that she had met with her bishop and it was as if he already knew what her issues were and how to best help her. While the bishop is certainly fallible, the Lord inspires him, guides him, and blesses lives through his words.

In the distance we can hear voices descending through the mountain trees. Looking up the rocky slope, we see three Italian girls, arm in arm, singing and walking toward us. Gradually we recognize the song—a favorite among LDS young women—“I Walk by Faith.” As Iris Cartia, Annalisa Brandonisio, and Stefania Ferrazzano come closer, they all begin talking at once—part in English, part in Italian, and part in French, with a lot of hand gestures. Then Stefania starts to sing a popular Italian song for us, accompanied with dancing and good-natured laughter. Soon, the girls get serious again and sing several LDS hymns. These girls, who range in age from fifteen to seventeen, come from widely different areas and backgrounds in Italy, but it is obvious that they enjoy each other.
It was the summer of 1990, and the occasion was Torchlight 90, a multi-stake LDS Young Women camp in Italy. More than 130 girls attended this week-long camp in the rugged mountains near L’Aquilla, about fifty miles from Rome.
Quite by accident, we just happened to be in Trieste, Italy, the day before the Young Women of the ward there were to leave for the camp. Rita Schina, the Young Women leader in the Trieste Ward, invited us to accompany the group. We had other plans, but a whisper in our hearts told us to go to the camp instead, so we heeded the prompting. We have been thankful ever since that we did.
There was something about the girls we met at the camp that touched us spiritually. Perhaps it was their vibrant glow and the excitement they expressed about their ideals. Or maybe it was their respect for their leaders. Certainly, much of it was their love for each other, which grew deeper every day they were together.
As the years have passed, we have corresponded with some of the girls that were part of Torchlight 90 to see if the extraordinary spirit we witnessed had continued in their lives. We have been pleased to find that it has.
The camp was divided into seven individual campsites, each representing one of the seven Young Women values. At every campsite, the girls were mixed from several stakes or districts so they could develop friends from other areas of Italy. The campsite was located on Rocco di Mezzo plateau, surrounded by rugged mountains and dotted with scattered tents full of talking, laughing girls.
Three short whistle blasts—the call to supper. The three girls hesitate for a moment, but supper can wait while they finish sharing expressions of testimony and friendship. After a few more songs from these unpretentious girls, we all reluctantly and slowly return to camp.
Every morning, all the girls gather for a flag-raising ceremony, then engage in games. This morning, there are clouds overhead and the mountain winds blow cold. The girls make a semicircle in front of the flags. As the sun gradually blossoms over the mountain peaks, everyone stands quietly for the opening prayer. The sounds of birds and crickets lightly pepper the soft whisper of the wind. This is a special morning, because Brother Christian Euvrard, a regional leader in the area, is speaking to the girls. He talks about the Young Women program as a guide for planning the future. When he finishes, he picks up a stick and breaks it as a symbol that the ceremony is over. Now it is time for games. And that’s when something unusual begins to happen.
As the girls join together in various groups, one of the groups appears isolated from the others. It is a small group of American girls whose parents work or are stationed temporarily in Italy. They don’t speak Italian, and they are not familiar with some of the everyday customs that come naturally to the Italian girls. They feel awkward. The Italian girls huddle together, then walk over to the Americans and tell them about an experience they had at a Church-sponsored event in Florence last year. “One of the members of our group did not speak Italian, so we decided to go through a whole day without speaking, using only hand signs. When the day ended, we all felt much closer to each other.” Soon both Americans and Italians are talking and singing together. It is a beginning.
The American girls’ Young Women leader, Linda Black, still lives in Verona, Italy. She wrote to us that several of the American girls became close friends with some of the Italian girls and have continued to write to them.
Annalisa Brandonisio, from Venice, wrote us, “Even though our language and customs were different, I felt united to the American group because of the strong influence of the Spirit of the Lord that was with us.”
Telling us about the camp, she said, “It was often hard for me to sleep at night, because my heart was so filled with emotion and feelings for that special week in the mountains. Torchlight 90 helped me to realize that I can get closer to God by having the right kind of friends.”
Annalisa is nineteen now. She is a stake missionary and a visiting teacher in the Modena Ward, in the Venice Italy Stake. She plans to serve a “mini-mission” this summer and a full-time mission when she is old enough.
Sonia Plescovich, from the Genoa Third Branch, Torino Italy District, wrote: “Torchlight 90 will remain in my heart for the rest of my life. Though we were many girls from many places, we all had the same ideals, the same thoughts and beliefs. Even though we had never seen each other before, it was as if we were friends from birth. I learned to love those girls as much as my own family. Because of the example of some of them, I learned to read the Book of Mormon every night. Being there and feeling the love of everyone in the camp, I felt closer to God than I have ever felt before. It seemed that the veil that divides us from God didn’t exist for a time.”
Sonia, now twenty, is the first counselor in the branch Relief Society presidency, a visiting teacher, and the branch choir director and organist. She is planning to begin a full-time mission sometime this year. In her most recent letter, she commented: “I saw some of the girls I met at Torchlight 90 at one of our latest Young Adult conferences, and we talked of the wonderful memories we have of the camp. I still have special feelings for the girls I met at Torchlight 90.”
Iris Cartia from the Vimercate Branch, Milan Italy Stake, wrote about her feelings toward the girls she met at the camp: “The Church is not spread widely in Italy yet, and even the members within a branch or ward often live far from each other. So I cherished the opportunities to get together with girls who share my beliefs and feelings. Those were special moments in my life. And from them I drew the strength to go on and be different from the world, to be a light for those around me. I know that neither time nor distance can prevent those who love the gospel from meeting together with joy, no matter where they come from.”
Shortly after the camp, Iris had written to us, “This experience helped me concentrate on the important things, like planning my life so I can go on a mission and get married in the temple someday.”
Three years later, those goals are still important to Iris. She is now nineteen and serves as the branch organist, director of the Relief Society choir, and a visiting teacher. She served a “mini-mission” in Torino, Italy, and corresponds with a 73-year-old woman she contacted as a missionary there. She plans to go on a full-time mission.
Iris continues to feel the influence of the camp in her life: “Torchlight 90 gave me an ideal and example that still lives in my heart. The example set by the leaders at the camp guides my leadership style considerably.”
Stefania Ferrazzano from the Foggia Branch, Puglia Italy District, wrote about the camp: “Being in the mountains without modern conveniences made me realize how much I took for granted and how much the Lord has blessed my life. It helped me to know that my life depends on God and that the gospel is my anchor and my guide. At the camp I learned that we have to work for the things we want to achieve, but if we do our part, the Lord will do the rest.”
Stefania is twenty now and is ready to go on a full-time mission when she turns twenty-one. Her sister is currently serving a mission in Milan. Stefania is the first counselor in the branch Relief Society presidency, branch librarian, and assistant clerk. She has also served as a Sunday School teacher for young people from twelve to eighteen. She tells us, “Even after three years, Torchlight 90’s influence on my testimony is still present.”
The Young Women gather in a “campfire circle” that has no fire—it is not lawful to have a large open campfire in these mountains. The excited conversations race back and forth, and there is vivid hand-waving as one girl or another tries to emphasize a point. All this is mixed with smiles and laughter and an occasional tear of understanding.
The girls continue to laugh and talk noisily until Sister Adele Peloni, a Young Women leader from the Venice Italy Stake and one of the camp leaders, stands, ushering in a stillness that amplifies the soft sounds of the mountain breezes. “Remember the standards of Young Women. … Be true to yourself,” she tells them.
The camp theme, “From the top, upward,” and the camp theme song, “I Walk by Faith,” reflect the ideals of the Young Women program all over the world. The girls have heard these concepts before, but somehow, in this setting, with the mountains so near and new friends by their sides, the girls feel exhilarating energy in the words that instill deeper feelings of love for one another and a greater desire to be close to the Spirit.
As the sun sets behind the towering mountains, leaving a gray cold, the girls huddle in their tents and talk about their experiences at the camp—putting up tents in the wind, making tables from wooden poles and ropes, and cooking without modern conveniences. They laugh about the games and the tricks they played on each other. Then, as the night closes in, they get more personal, and the girls share their feelings and hopes. Often these thoughts turn toward the gospel and what it means in their lives.
We had to leave the camp before the final night, so Tiziana Rossato, one of the leaders from the Venice Italy Stake, wrote to share with us that night’s experience: “In the final testimony meeting, the girls and leaders formed a big circle, hand in hand, and sang a goodbye song. They started with strong voices, but ended in tears and sobs, then total silence for a long time after the closing prayer.”
We attended the camp to see if such an experience could change the lives of young LDS girls. Now we realize that the experience changed our lives as well. The joy the girls felt in living simple gospel standards, and the unpretentious love and respect they showed to us and to each other, have been lasting influences in our lives.
We still receive letters from the girls, and they often recall for us their special feelings for the camp and for the people they met there and how their lives have been changed because of Torchlight 90. One of the girls summed up the feelings of all who attended the camp: “The Spirit of the Lord works like magic in our Young Women camps; it can touch your heart for a split second, but change your life forever.”

Across from me a woman sat sobbing. With tear-filled eyes, she told me, “I don’t know what I believe anymore.” She spoke of having struggled and prayed many days to know how to make a vitally important decision in her life, without success. She anguished, “I don’t know what to do. If you’ll tell me what to do, I’ll do it.” With her hand on the scriptures, she said, “God told us He would help us. He answers everybody else’s prayers. Why won’t He answer mine?”
She said, “God told us He would help us. He answers everybody else’s prayers. Why won’t He answer mine?”
When one is caught in a whirlpool of emotion, it is difficult to find a way out alone. My prayer is to help you who have similar feelings.
When answers to urgent prayer don’t seem to come, it can be that we don’t understand some truths about prayer or because we don’t recognize answers when they come.
Communication with our Father in Heaven is not a trivial matter. It is a sacred privilege. It is based upon unchanging principles. When we receive help from our Father in Heaven, it is in response to faith, obedience, and the proper use of agency.
It is a mistake to assume that every prayer we offer will be answered immediately. Some prayers require considerable effort on our part. True, sometimes impressions come when we have not specifically sought them. They generally concern something we need to know and are not otherwise able to find out.
We are here on earth to gain experience we can obtain in no other way. We are given the opportunity to grow, to develop, and to gain spiritual maturity. To do that, we must learn to apply truth. How we face challenges and resolve difficult problems is crucially important to our happiness.
To better understand prayer, I have listened to the counsel of others, pondered the scriptures, and studied the lives of prophets and others. Yet what seems most helpful is seeing in my mind a child approaching trustingly a loving, kind, wise, understanding Father, who wants us to succeed.
Don’t worry about your clumsily expressed feelings. Just talk to your Father. He hears every prayer and answers it in His way.
When we explain a problem and a proposed solution, sometimes He answers yes, sometimes no. Often He withholds an answer, not for lack of concern, but because He loves us—perfectly. He wants us to apply truths He has given us. For us to grow, we need to trust our ability to make correct decisions. We need to do what we feel is right. In time, He will answer. He will not fail us.
I have described the absolute reality of our relationship with our Father. There is nothing about us He does not know. He is conscious of our every need and could provide all of the answers. Yet, because His purpose is our eternal happiness, He encourages us to make the correct choices.
Like many of us, Oliver Cowdery did not recognize the evidence of answers to prayers already given by the Lord. To open his—and our—eyes, this revelation was given through Joseph Smith:
“Blessed art thou for what thou hast done; for thou hast inquired of me, and behold, as often as thou hast inquired thou hast received instruction of my Spirit. If it had not been so, thou wouldst not have come to the place where thou art at this time.
“Behold, thou knowest that thou hast inquired of me and I did enlighten thy mind; and now I tell thee these things that thou mayest know that thou hast been enlightened by the Spirit of truth” (D&C 6:14–15; emphasis added).
If you feel that God has not answered your prayers, ponder these scriptures—then carefully look for evidence in your own life of His having already answered you.
To help each of us recognize answers given, the Lord said:
“If you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things.
“Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter?” (D&C 6:22–23; emphasis added).
The Lord provides further insight by counseling us to study a problem out in our mind and then to ask if it be right:
“If it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right.
“But if it be not right you shall have no such feelings, but you shall have a stupor of thought” (D&C 9:8–9; emphasis added).
It is vitally important to recognize that the Lord also responds a third way to prayer by withholding an answer when the prayer is offered. Why would He do that?
He is our perfect Father. He loves us beyond our capacity to understand. He knows what is best for us. He sees the end from the beginning. He wants us to act to gain needed experience:
When He answers yes, it is to give us confidence.
When He answers no, it is to prevent error.
When He withholds an answer, it is to have us grow through faith in Him, obedience to His commandments, and a willingness to act on truth. We are expected to assume accountability by acting on a decision that is consistent with His teachings without prior confirmation. We are not to sit passively waiting or to murmur because the Lord has not spoken. We are to act.
Sometimes answers to prayer are not recognized because we are too intent on wanting confirmation of our own desires.
Most often what we have chosen to do is right. He will confirm the correctness of our choices His way. That confirmation generally comes through packets of help found along the way. We discover them by being spiritually sensitive. They are like notes from a loving Father as evidence of His approval. If, in trust, we begin something that is not right, He will let us know before we have gone too far. We sense that help by recognizing troubled or uneasy feelings.
Illustration by Brian Call
Nephi’s efforts to obtain the plates of brass show how the principles work (see 1 Nephi 3:6–7). After two unsuccessful attempts, Nephi remained confident. He crept into the city toward the house of Laban without all the answers. He observed, “I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do,” significantly adding, “nevertheless I went forth” (1 Nephi 4:6–7; emphasis added).
Nephi was willing to try time and again, using his best efforts. He expressed faith that he would be helped. He refused to be discouraged. But because he acted, had confidence in the Lord, was obedient, and properly used his agency, he received guidance. He was inspired step after step to success, and in his mother’s words was “given … power [to] accomplish the thing which the Lord hath commanded” (1 Nephi 5:8; emphasis added).
Nephi knew he was required to confide in God, to exercise faith, and to act so that he could receive help, step by step. He did not murmur nor ask for a full explanation. But, observe particularly, he did not wait passively for help. He acted! By following spiritual law, he was inspired and given power to act.
Sometimes answers to prayer are not recognized because we are too intent on wanting confirmation of our own desires. We fail to see that the Lord would have us do something else. Be careful to seek His will.
I confess I don’t know how to make a correct decision except where there is righteousness and trust in a Heavenly Father. The principles simply will not work when agency is intentionally used at variance with the will of God. If there is unrepented sin, we are left to our own devices to flounder and struggle on our own. We can be rescued through our own repentance.
When we seek inspiration to help make decisions, the Lord gives gentle promptings. These require us to think, to exercise faith, to work, to struggle at times, and to act. Seldom does the whole answer to a decisively important matter or complex problem come all at once. More often, it comes a piece at a time, without the end in sight.
I have saved the most important part about prayer until the end. It is gratitude! Our sincere efforts to thank our beloved Father generate wondrous feelings of peace, self-worth, and love.
Why is it that the most impoverished seem to know best how to thank the Lord? In the highlands of Guatemala, members barely subsist. Going to the temple requires great sacrifice. A visit takes a year of preparation. There is hard work, sacrifice to save money and food, the spinning, dyeing, and weaving of new clothing. There is the long, barefoot walk out of the mountains, the crossing of Lake Isabel, the bus rides with little food. Tired and worn, they arrive at the temple. They scrub until they shine, dress in their new clothing, and enter the house of the Lord.
Reclothed in white, they are taught by the Spirit, receive ordinances, and make covenants. One highland woman was greatly touched by the spirit and meaning of the endowment. Entering the celestial room, she saw others seated, with heads reverently bowed. Innocently, she knelt at the entrance to the room, oblivious to others. She bowed her head, sobbed, and for twenty minutes poured out her heart to her Father in Heaven. Finally, with her dress soaked with tears, she raised her head. The sensitive temple matron asked, “May I help?” She responded, “Oh, would you? This is my problem: I’ve tried to tell Father in Heaven of my gratitude for all of my blessings, but I don’t feel that I’ve communicated. Will you help me tell Him how grateful I am?”
This counsel about prayer is true. I have tested it thoroughly in the laboratory of my own personal life. I have discovered that what sometimes seems an impenetrable barrier to communication is a giant step to be taken in trust.
If you seek His help, be sure your life is clean, your motives are worthy, and you’re willing to do what He asks—for He will answer your prayers. He is your loving Father; you are His beloved child. He loves you perfectly and wants to help you.

One Friday in fourth grade, I was eating lunch in the cafeteria. After I threw my trash away, I couldn’t find my CTR ring. It was really special to me. I thought I had put it on my lunch box, but it was not there. It wasn’t under the table or in the trash can, either. I prayed, and later I asked my teacher to tell the custodians about my ring. I worried the whole weekend and prayed and prayed to get my ring back. On Monday morning, Mom and I went to the office, and the secretary held up a ring and asked if it was mine. It was! I know that Heavenly Father answered my prayer, and I still have my ring.Emily Rawlins, age 10Morrisville, Pennsylvania

When I was fifteen years old, my mother suggested that I get a patriarchal blessing. Although I hadn’t thought of doing so, her suggestion felt right, and preparations were made. I don’t remember the interview with my bishop or making the appointment, but I do remember an increasing sense of reluctance as the day approached.

My anxiety was all about my future. I had heard story after story of remarkable blessings with unusual promises. Some days I felt extraordinary—as if there were special things ahead for me. But usually I felt ordinary—even invisible some days. What if I didn’t have anything in my future? Better not to know. Maybe there wouldn’t be anything for the patriarch to say, and the blessing would only be one or two sentences long. I wondered if I would go on a mission—would I marry—would there be children—how many?

As you can see, I didn’t really understand the difference between a patriarchal blessing and a Chinese fortune cookie. But I did understand one important difference: I didn’t believe in messages in cookies, but I did believe in patriarchal blessings.

I was prepared to believe anything that was said, or not said.

The anticipated day arrived. I went with my parents to the patriarch’s cozy little study. As he placed his hands on my head, there was a steadiness that vaporized all uncertainty. I remember the surprise and wonder of that day, but also of every other time I have read that blessing—the startling news: He knows me. Heavenly Father knows me! And he has a plan for my future. I don’t need to know all the details, but if I do my part, it will turn out wonderfully well.

Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ live, and they are in charge of this world.
They know me.
They love me.
They have a plan for my future.
I will obey the commandments, work hard, and trust in that plan. Sooner or later, everything will be okay.

Lisa could hardly wait until Stephanie’s birthday party. The invitation promised fun games and tasty refreshments. Lisa carefully wrapped the stationery set she’d chosen for Stephanie and tied a purple ribbon around it.
When all the girls got to Stephanie’s house, Stephanie led them to the garage. It was decorated with crepe-paper streamers, and a brightly colored piñata hung from the rafters.
The girls took turns swinging at the piñata with a papier-mâché stick. Lisa gave the piñata a whack, but it didn’t break. When it finally broke, small candies spilled out, and everyone scrambled for them, laughing and squealing.
“We need some music,” one of the girls said.
Stephanie turned on a CD player. The music was loud, and the singer was singing some bad words. Lisa grew more and more uneasy. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. “I need to go home,” she whispered to Stephanie.
Stephanie looked surprised. “What’s wrong?”
“The music is making me really uncomfortable,” Lisa said.
Stephanie looked disappointed, but Lisa knew she needed to leave. She called her mother and told her what was going on.
“I’ll be right there,” her mother said.
Lisa went to wait outside. But soon Stephanie and the other girls joined her on the front porch. “We turned off the music,” Stephanie said. “Please don’t leave.”
The rest of the girls nodded in agreement.
“None of us liked it,” Stephanie admitted. “We just didn’t have the courage to say so.”
Lisa smiled. “Let me call my mom back before she leaves to tell her I’ll be staying after all.”
Stephanie threw her arms around Lisa. “Thanks for staying. The party wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Lisa hugged her friend back. Standing up for her standards hadn’t been easy, but she was glad that she had.

Seven of the East German Mission’s eight districts lay within the Russian zone. President Stover launched a series of district conferences into this zone, gathering together the remnants of the Saints. Many branches had almost disappeared. Some had only women and children. The men were dead or in prison camps. The people were reduced to eating weeds to supplement their meager ration of black bread. The members thronged to the conferences, as hungry for spiritual nourishment as they were for food. Time after time President Stover crossed into the Russian zone in his green Pontiac, taking both spiritual and temporal aid, a shepherd to a scattered and ravaged flock.
There was some danger in these travels. He was arrested several times, and once he was taken at gun point to be tried by a Russian military court as an American spy. He was released unhurt. He had been promised by President George Albert Smith that the adversary would have no power over him as long as he was doing his duty, and this promise was honored many times.

“FIRE! Fire!” Frantic pleas for help broke the stillness of the quiet afternoon in Nauvoo. But it wasn’t a barn or a shed that was in flames that February 9, 1846.
Eleven-year-old Aurelia Spencer was nearby and could see men on top of the temple, swinging their hats and calling for assistance. Many members of the Church were busy preparing to leave Illinois for Utah, but when the alarm sounded everyone left whatever they were doing to help save the temple.
Willard Richards, a leader in the community, was on the temple grounds when the fire started and he immediately took charge. He shouted for everyone, including women and children, to rush to the closest wells to fill buckets with water. Two rows of men were formed on the stairs leading up to the attic roof of the temple where the fire had started. They passed full buckets of water up one row of fire fighters and returned them empty down another. Aurelia ran back and forth carrying pails of water to the men in the bucket brigade. But the wells were soon emptied, and teams of horses were driven to the river to obtain water.
There were a few moments of confusion when another alarm called some of the Saints to help rescue the victims of an accident nearby involving two riverboats. But in spite of this interruption, the temple fire was put out after about half an hour.
Hosea Stout, one of the fire fighters, said that a hole about 3 1/2 meters square had been burned in the roof. Later it was found that the temple fire had been caused by a red-hot stovepipe that ignited some clothes drying in an attic room.
When the fire was completely extinguished, Aurelia joined with the Saints as they rejoiced with loud shouts of Hosannah. Brigham Young, President of the Council of the Twelve, had seen the smoke from some distance and arrived just as the crowd began to celebrate. The Nauvoo band then climbed to the top of the roof and began to play for those gathered below.
Aurelia felt privileged to be able to help put out the fire that could easily have destroyed the Saints’ beloved temple. She later wrote, “Child as I was, I could not help noticing the order that prevailed and the calmness of the men that superintended the work.”
Aurelia grew up to become the president of the first Primary organized in the Church.

Sabrina T., São Paulo, Brazil
When I was little, my family and I passed through many financial trials that lasted until I was about 10 years old. My dad couldn’t find other work, so he worked as a street vendor and earned very little. My mother stayed home to care for me and my younger brother.
But even passing through so many tribulations, we had a testimony of paying tithing and giving other offerings. We faithfully paid our tithing every month and never lacked anything. We know with certainty that we were continually blessed because of the Lord’s infinite kindness and because He keeps His promises when we are obedient to His commandments.
Our days of financial trial finally ended. The blessings that the Lord has given us in these last few years have been amazing.
I know that for those who faithfully pay tithing and pay their offerings in love with the goal of blessing the lives of others, nothing will lack and something even better can happen, as with me and my family. The blessings will increase. I know this. I lived this.

Growing up, I often heard people in church say, “Families are forever,” and I’d think to myself, “Sure. If I lived in so-and-so’s home, that would be easy to say.” But I did not come from an ideal family background.
I was adopted and an only child. My mother was an alcoholic, which contributed to my parents’ divorce when I was five. My father raised me alone from then on.
I joined the Church on my own when I was in fifth grade, which introduced the challenge of being the only member in my family. My father supported my participation in the Church to the extent that it helped him in his efforts to raise a moral, drug-free daughter.
By the time I was in high school, he was gone on business trips the majority of the time. He left every Monday morning and came home every Friday night for all but five weeks one entire year. Several families in our stake opened their homes to me when my father traveled.
However, there was one major problem. The more time I spent in these good, Latter-day Saint homes, the more my own home life seemed to fall short. Great Mormon families doing what seemed to be all the ideal things a family should be doing surrounded me. Inside I was frustrated and even dissatisfied.
About this same time my father began to challenge me about the things I believed. When he started to attack my testimony, I felt I just couldn’t take it anymore, so one day I went to see my bishop. I must have wanted someone to side with me or give me sympathy because (as I saw it then), my dad wasn’t as great as other dads since he wasn’t a Latter-day Saint. My bishop said he’d be happy to meet with me the following week after church, but he wanted me to do one thing before our meeting: to go home and make a list of 20 things I admired or appreciated about my father.
I was sure he hadn’t understood why I’d asked for this meeting. Didn’t he realize that I was having a problem because there was so little to appreciate anymore? But fearing he was half-serious, I made half an effort. After a half hour, I only had five things on my list. I figured that proved my case, and tucked it in my scriptures for my appointment with the bishop.
When I returned to the bishop’s office the following week, he invited me in and immediately asked if I’d completed my assignment. I told him I had started and showed him my short list. He responded by telling me that he’d be happy to discuss anything I wanted, at length, but first I had to complete my assignment. He asked if I would like him to reschedule an appointment for the following week. Anxious for some relief from the many pressures I was dealing with at home, I made another appointment and left.
Saturday night rolled around, and I realized I still hadn’t made the list. I decided I’d better do it if I was going to get anywhere with the bishop. Then I remembered a conversation I’d had with a friend that week. She asked me why I didn’t seem emotionally “messed up” because of my parents’ divorce. I thought back on how much effort my father had made to keep me out of the center of the ugly part of the divorce, and, while talking to my friend, I realized for the first time what a tremendous gift that was. It became the first sincere thing I’d written on my list.
Then I remembered how hard my father had fought to keep me in a time when fathers were rarely granted custody of their children. I thought how different my life would have been if I’d had to grow up with my alcoholic mother. Tears of gratitude streamed down my cheeks. This too was added to my list.
And the list grew on and on. At nearly 1:30 in the morning, I looked down at my list of 69 reasons why I felt so blessed for the wonderful father Heavenly Father had given me.
After church the next day my bishop invited me into his office and asked how my week had been. I told him it had been a good week, and that I wasn’t really sure there was a reason for us to meet any longer. When he inquired as to why—though I hated to admit it—I told him it was because of “the list.” I pulled out my list and shared with him what a wonderful man my father was.
My dear bishop taught me one of the most important lessons I have ever learned in life: no one has the perfect situation. But it is up to us to make the most of that situation and help wherever necessary. With my dad, should I focus on the majority that is good or the minority that could still use a little improvement? My bishop helped me realize that when I am discouraged, I can always think about—or maybe even list—the positive things in my life.

After four years of trying to have another baby, Anna (names have been changed) and her husband were grateful for the birth of a daughter. But Anna found that adapting to the needs of a newborn, in addition to caring for her sons, was overwhelming. She found herself sinking into depression in spite of her best attempts to manage everything and maintain a sense of normalcy. Anna was struggling with postpartum depression.
Other Helpful Outlets. Other activities might also be helpful in managing and overcoming postpartum depression:
Listening to uplifting music.
Reading the scriptures and other inspiring books. Anna reported that she especially enjoyed reading 2 Nephi 4, which documents Nephi’s feelings of discouragement and doubt, then his growing recognition of the love of the Lord for him: “My God hath been my support; he hath led me through mine afflictions” (2 Nephi 4:20).
Keeping a journal. Rachel said, “As I wrote in my journal, I was able to articulate my feelings of deep despair. It helped me to become more aware of what seemed to trigger feelings of depression. It also helped me begin to count my blessings.”
Praying for help and comfort. Anna said, “Being depressed made it harder for me to feel the comfort of the Holy Spirit I so desperately needed. I tried to challenge the negative voices that left me feeling weaker and doubting my capacity to overcome my negative emotions.” Johanna asked herself and the Lord this question as she engaged in personal prayer and contemplation, “Heavenly Father, what am I supposed to learn from this?”
Recognizing that we can learn from our trials can strengthen our faith, even as we are in the midst of them. God does not leave us alone in our struggle to find hope. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles counseled: “To any who may be struggling to see that light and find that hope, I say: Hold on. Keep trying. God loves you.”5 And He does. Sister Patricia Holland, Elder Holland’s wife, once invited us to return to “the wholeness of our soul, that unity in our very being that balances the demanding and inevitable diversity of life.”6
Anna explained the process she went through: “As I struggled to overcome postpartum depression, I sought to get beyond the darkness and into the light, the light of the Son of God. I wept as I read Isaiah 53:3–4, understanding fully for the first time that the Savior was ‘a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. … Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.’ I held on to the promise that the Savior was my personal Savior, that He had been sent to ‘give unto [us] beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness’ (Isaiah 61:3). As I looked toward the Savior, I realized more fully that He knew my pain, that He could sensitively succor me as I reached out to Him.”

I’ve had many blessings in my life—spiritual blessings. I had good parents, a good education, material blessings like a good home. I always had enough to eat, always a bed to sleep in, and many, many other blessings. I had the opportunity of working in business capacities, and in this capacity, of seeing the world, seeing many people. I have had many opportunities, but the greatest blessing that has come to me came through humble missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I want to express gratitude for all that I have to these young men that came to our home—not only that they came, but that they had love enough not to give up. I was a very hard case. I had thought that through my education, and through my background, and my history, and my family that I would be superior. I felt pity for the missionaries. I said, “Well, this fine young man, with such a poor message!” They didn’t give up. They came again and again and again. And I felt an authority radiating through them that was stronger and more than all the knowledge that I had in my previous life—the authority of the true love of Christ. I want to give thanks to this generation of missionaries who did not give up and to the mission president who had concern enough not to withdraw the missionaries from me. It was Elder Theodore M. Burton. I will never forget that.
I will tell you that I’m deeply convinced that this is in my life the most important blessing I have ever received. It changed my life totally. I began to realize that a man can know nothing important in this world unless he has knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ restored by his prophet, Joseph Smith, and follow-through by a living prophet, Spencer W. Kimball. Without this message I would not have a family like I have now. I would not have the love for my lovely wife that I have now, and I would not be able to be so proud of my children.

This story happened in Finland.
Joska and his family walked quietly through the snow. It was Christmas Eve, and they were doing one of their favorite traditions. Every year, people in Finland visited the cemetery to light candles on the graves of their loved ones.
Lots of bright candles glittered in the dark. Even though it was cold, they made the cemetery feel cozy and peaceful.
Joska’s parents led them to a grave. “Who’s this?” his little sister, Aasa, asked.
“This is my great-uncle,” said Mum.
Turo, Joska’s older brother, pointed at the dates on the stone. “He was born over a hundred years ago!”
“Yes. But he’s still part of our family.” Mum pulled out a candle. “Do you want to light it, Joska?”
Joska nodded and lit the candle. Then he carefully put a metal lid with holes in it on top. It would keep the wind from blowing out the flame. He placed the candle on the ground in front of the grave. The soft, glowing light looked beautiful.
They went to the next family grave. Joska held Aasa’s hand as they walked.
“Why do we light candles on the graves?” she asked.
“Because it’s important to remember our family members,” he said.
“Even if they lived a hundred years ago?” Aasa asked.
“Yes,” Dad said. “All our aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents are part of our family. We’re all one big family because of Jesus Christ.”
Mum got out another candle. Turo helped Aasa light it.
“But why do we light the candles at Christmas?” Aasa asked.
Joska thought about that for a minute. They could light candles at the cemetery any other day. Why Christmas Eve?
“Maybe because Jesus is the Light of the World,” Joska said.
Mum smiled. “That’s a great answer. I think you’re right.” She helped Aasa put her candle in the snow next to the grave. “It’s because of Jesus Christ that we can be with our family forever. And because He lived again, all of us will live again too.”
They all stepped back to look at the lights. The whole cemetery twinkled like it was full of stars.
Joska’s heart felt warm as they walked back to the car. When they got home, they would open presents and play games. But right now, Joska was glad he could have this quiet time with his family. He would always be grateful for Jesus’s light.
Why did Joska and his family light candles on Christmas Eve?
Illustration by Flavio Remontti

“Once I met a successful businessman who smiled slowly when our introductions were over.
“‘You don’t remember me,’ he said.
“‘I’m sorry. No. Should I?’ I regretted the oversight, however innocent.
“‘No problem. We were depression kids when our paths crossed before. I was poor folks from the shack at the top of the long wooden steps where the hill slopes into town. Remember the place?’
“I remembered.
“‘I lived there all during my high school years and didn’t have a friend in the world. No one would even dance with me. One winter’s night at a church function I mustered my nerve to ask you to dance with me. I knew I was in over my head, your being one of the “in” crowd and all, but I decided to go for broke.’
“‘What happened?’
“‘We danced! Not only that, but you were nice to me. Maybe this sounds crazy, but it’s true. That day hope came back into my life.’”

“Can’t we go any faster?” I asked anxiously as we rode along the graveled highway in our newly purchased secondhand pickup.
Mama smiled. “Why the big hurry?” she teased as if she didn’t know.
“I can hardly wait to buy the shoes,” I answered. I was so excited, for it had been nearly a year since I was 11 1/4 and had been taken to the store to buy new shoes. I had thought lately that they would never wear out, and I knew they wouldn’t be replaced until they did. But at last Mama had spoken the long-awaited words.
“I think it’s time to buy you another pair of shoes,” she said. “There is certainly no more wear in those.”
The town with the big country store was four long miles away, and it seemed like forever before we finally arrived.
As soon as we were parked, I jumped out of the pickup and ran into the building. I hurried past the canned goods, down through the hardwares, and wasn’t quite to the shoe department when suddenly I saw them. There on a middle shelf that was tilted up a little was a pair of bright red shoes sitting on a silver stand. I stopped short and caught my breath in awe at the beauty of their color and the daintiness of their sandal-type straps. Printed on a cardboard in the background were the words, “Newest 1940 Fashion in Footwear.” For a long time I stood and looked.
Mama came up behind me, and I led her directly to the shelf.
“May I have these?” I asked hopefully. Mama studied the shoes for a long moment.
“They aren’t very practical,” she said finally, “and you know they will have to last a long time. I think we should buy something more sturdy.”
“I’ll be ever so careful with them,” I coaxed. “Please.”
The clerk came up and measured my foot.
“The red shoes are a half size too small,” she said, “and it is the only pair we have left. However,” she added when she saw the disappointed look on my face, “sometimes sandal-type slippers run a little larger than the average shoe. Would you like to try them on and see?”
Mama reasoned with me, telling me my feet needed room to grow even if the shoes did fit now.
“But maybe there is a little extra room,” I said. “May I at least try them on and see?” I put my whole being into the pleading expression of my eyes.
“Well,” Mama puckered her forehead into a sort of deep-thought furrow for a moment before she answered, “all right.” I had the feeling that she sensed how important this was to me.
The shoes, with a built-in toe and heel, felt tight, but nevertheless I succeeded without too much effort in getting them both on, and I stood and looked down in admiration.
“May I have them?” I asked, feeling, without doubt, that I could stretch the tiny straps in a short period of time to fit comfortably.
The shoes didn’t look too small, but Mama seemed certain that there wasn’t enough room for my feet to grow.
“They will be getting more of this style in next summer,” she said. “Perhaps it would be better to wait and buy a pair then.”
My hopes declined. I was sure there would never be another pair of shoes as beautiful as these, but I said nothing. Mama focused her forehead into another deep-thought wrinkle as she walked over and picked up a pair of brown oxfords in the size I needed.
“Why don’t you try these on,” she said, “then you can make the decision yourself.”
I was elated. Even though I had made decisions before, I had never made one as important as this. I felt that Mama considered me sort of an adult, and I knew that she understood about 12-year-olds and growing up.
As I slipped one of the brown shoes on and tied the lace, it felt good in comparison to the red one on my other foot. I pondered silently as I tried to decide fairly, considering the good and bad points of each pair of shoes. The oxfords would last longer, and they were more comfortable, but they were so brown and plain, sort of ordinary looking really, and besides, they were the kind I had always worn. The red shoes were beautiful, and I wanted something different. If I was careful, they could last a long time. Admittedly, they did squeeze, but I could suffer for a day or two if need be, for I was very sure that I could stretch them in that length of time. Yes, I would take the red ones.
Mama didn’t say anything as she paid the clerk. After all, she had told me the decision was mine.
I strutted toward the door and was so preoccupied with how much older the shoes made me look that I knocked over a small display of cooking utensils and bumped into the candy counter on my way out. I was so happy over my purchase that I didn’t ask Mama what she had in the other package she was carrying when she got in the pickup.
The next two days I wore the pretty shoes in misery. Then a blister appeared on each of my big toes, and the misery turned to agony. Furthermore, I was becoming discouraged, for the tiny straps weren’t stretching at all as I had felt so sure they would.
If Mama saw me wrap small white strips of cloth around my toes to protect the blisters, she made no mention of it. I went outdoors as often as I could and slipped the shoes off. The cool air felt good on my hot feet, and each time I stayed out as long as I dared.
Slowly, out of desperation and pain, I became more brave, and the shoes lay forgotten on the floor of my closet as I went barefoot both inside the house and out. Mama, I am very sure, was aware of my bare feet, but as she didn’t question me, I hoped she supposed that I was trying to be careful of the shoes and make them last as long as the brown ones would have.
With Sunday came the sudden realization that I couldn’t possibly go barefoot to church. I put off the dreaded task of wearing the shoes until the last minute, and it wasn’t until everyone was ready to go that I carefully started the insertion of my foot into one of the slippers. As it entered the enclosure at the end of the shoe, my big toe rebelled hotly, and I pulled it quickly out. Several times I tried to put on the shoe, but each time my foot resented the tight squeeze and throbbed the resentment painfully.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. With tears close to my eyes and the red shoes held firmly in my hands, I went to Mama. My lip quivered, but I was determined not to cry. After all, I was 13 years old, in ten months, that is. I stood for a minute trying to gain my composure and to think of something sort of, well, mature to say.
“They pinch and they hurt,” I blurted out honestly.
Her answer came as such a surprise that all I could do was stand with my mouth open saying nothing.
“We do not always make the right decisions,” Mama said as she went to a drawer and took out a package containing the brown shoes. As she handed them to me she added softly, “And sometimes it takes a pinch of hurt to help us be more wise the next time we have something important to decide.”

Around this time of loneliness, one of my friends participated in a 100-day gratitude challenge where she posted something she was grateful for on social media every day. At first it seemed ridiculous to me.
But as President Russell M. Nelson recently taught: “Counting our blessings is far better than recounting our problems. No matter our situation, showing gratitude for our privileges is a fast-acting and long-lasting spiritual prescription.”1
I have always been taught that gratitude can bring happiness, but I didn’t really believe it. But if there was a chance that it could help me feel joy, then I was going to try practicing gratitude too.
At first I focused a lot on the extravagant things in my life I was grateful for. But soon I noticed everyday blessings, like my cat, good relationships, the inspirational quotes on my social media feed, and my talents.
I’m always grateful for the moments of peace I feel, and I silently thank God when I notice His mercies that often carry me through the day, reminding me that He has great things in store for me.
I remember when President Nelson invited the sisters and youth of the Church to do social media fasts. Since accepting that first invitation, I’ve fasted from social media multiple times when I’ve felt that it’s creating the “impression that everyone except [me] is leading a fun, adventurous, and exciting life.”2
Through taking much-needed breaks from social media, I’ve learned about the importance of real-life relationships and gained a greater appreciation for finding joy through hobbies and spiritual habits.
I’ve also been able to see others from a more Christlike view instead of judging them by the life highlights they post. As President Nelson added, “Social media … creates a false reality,”3 and if we take a break from it, we can better remember the things that matter most, overcome the world,4 and focus on the Spirit.
When I felt lonely during college, I always had this thought: “If I’m feeling lonely, someone else is too.” That would motivate me to reach out to a friend or acquaintance. Our conversations would always lift both of our spirits.
I’ve realized that when I focus on helping others, I’m happy. This happens every time I listen to my friends’ struggles and offer them love and support. Just as President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) said, “To find real happiness, we must seek for it in a focus outside ourselves.”5
As I continue to apply these practices to my life, I keep realizing that I do have a “best” life and I don’t have to wait on specific blessings to feel joy. Sometimes I let my unmet expectations overwhelm me, but I reorient myself to notice my blessings and remember that through trusting Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and keeping my covenants, I can find a lasting joy I can’t get any other way.
I still may not have all the blessings in life I desire right now, but I like to remember these words from Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “The day will come when you turn the final pages of your own glorious story ... and experience the fulfillment of those blessed and wonderful words: ‘And they lived happily ever after.’”6
Until then, I will keep focusing on enjoying the best life I have with God’s help.

A Home-Concealed Woman. The title in the book catalog drew my eye again and again—A Home-Concealed Woman. Was it the story of my life? I checked the book out of the library. It was a diary kept by a woman living in the southern United States in the early 1900s. It was a warm and cozy record of her busy life as she bore and reared a large family, loved her husband, entertained friends, and cared for her aging parents. She was a kindred spirit, a good woman, hard-working, kind, observant of the beauties of nature. Her writings were similar to some of my own—filled with joy at her children’s small accomplishments, worry over teeth and earaches, delight at the first blossoms of spring. But she called herself a “home-concealed woman.” She had an obvious talent for writing but never much time to develop it. The physical circle of her life was small—hardly extending to the nearest village.
Did I see myself as a “home-concealed woman”? I wondered. Yes, I am a stay-at-home woman; but do the walls and roof of my home take on the aspects of a bushel basket over the candle of my personal light?
In the twenty-five years that I have been married, the place of woman in society has been the subject of much debate and confusion. As a young college graduate, I was refused a teaching job because I was pregnant—a strictly enforced district policy. In those days pregnant women and most other women, whether they had children or not, were expected by society to be concealed in their homes! A few years later, stay-at-home women were ridiculed in the popular press. Housework was supposed to be beneath the dignity and attention of the up-and-coming woman. (They forgot that it still had to be done by someone whether she, or he, was up-and-coming or not.) And a few years after that, there seemed to be no choice left. Nearly every woman I know now must work either full- or part-time—either outside or inside her home. For many, it is an economic necessity.
Does working outside the home release a woman from concealment? Maybe, if she is on television. But most often the women I know who work must maintain a carefully controlled schedule and limit their activities severely in order to do their jobs and care for their homes and families. They seem to be concealed within a tight world bounded by the realities of time and energy.
I still wondered what it was about the word concealed that had caught my attention. Did it have something to do with the fact that often when I meet new people they ask a few polite questions about our children and then turn with obvious interest to discussions of my husband’s work and hobbies? Yes, at times like that I do feel concealed and want to cry, “Look again! There is a person here—not just the wife of someone and the mother of someone else, but an individual with her own interests and talents. I read books, I have opinions, sometimes I am even witty—take a chance; get to know ME!” To those who know me well and with whom I am not shy, I am not a “concealed” person.
If my home is not a bushel basket over my light, then what is it? Is it a room—and I a candle set upon the mantel to give light to that room and to all who come within my circle of illumination? Perhaps the word concealed appealed to a bit of unfortunate pride within me—a desire to be a city on a hill, rather than just a candle in a room. I’m afraid that might have something to do with it.
And yet I know that the Lord has given me a light and that it is just the right light for the room in which I dwell—my home, family, neighborhood, and ward. I know that the work I have to do is important and that no one else can illuminate the space around me. I feel sure, most of the time, that the Lord approves the priorities I have set and the way I am tending my own little light. I also know that it takes all my best efforts, talents, and energy to keep that light glowing. And I know that I am part of the city set upon a hill, as is every other member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
There can be only a very few people in the world at a time who have such bright candles that they light up whole cities, or the whole world. Brigham Young was one of those people, and we often credit him with moving the Church to the West and settling Utah and other states. But he did not actually do any of that by himself. To be sure, he did provide inspiration and guidance, but it was the thousands of people with little candles who actually plowed the ground, built the cabins and temples, baked the bread, washed the clothes, built the towns, composed the songs, wrote the stories, taught the children, harvested the crops, and did all the other work that went into settling the West. Without all those little lights, Brigham Young’s dream never could have become a reality.
President Joseph F. Smith said, “After all, to do well those things which God ordained to be the common lot of man-kind, is the truest greatness. To be a successful father or a successful mother is greater than to be a successful general or a successful statesman” (Gospel Doctrine, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1939, page 285).
I know all these things, but sometimes I still feel “concealed,” and I think it is not the adulation of the world that would change that feeling. I remember the time when, as the young mother of four very small children and the wife of a very busy husband, I felt not just concealed, but buried by my home. I vividly remember standing at the ironing board in a room cluttered with toys and children, watching general conference on television. As President Harold B. Lee spoke, he seemed to be talking directly to me, and the Spirit entered my heart that day to remind me that I was a daughter of God and beloved of Him. Tears splashed on the iron as I felt His love surround me—a feeling I had forgotten.
Later I realized that I had become too busy with my little family for scripture study and going to the temple. Most of my time at church was spent in the hall with fussy babies, rather than worshiping. I had thought that reading the scriptures years earlier as a missionary would carry me through the rest of my life. I felt “concealed”—cut off from the Lord, but I was not. He was there, but I had failed to look up and see Him and receive His help and blessing. Now I know that no matter how small and insignificant my life may appear to the world, it doesn’t matter—as long as I am not concealed from the Lord.
So am I a “home-concealed woman”? No, I am a woman lighting a room, which is my home—sharing my light with others who come into my circle of illumination. Does my home and the work I do there conceal my talents? Does it keep me from reaching my potential? Not unless I choose to let that happen. Being a homemaker, mother, and wife is no more concealing of the real me than being a teacher, factory worker, nurse, or lawyer could be.
No, I am not a “home-concealed woman.” I am a “home-enhanced woman,” a “home-challenged woman.” But, most important, I am a loved daughter of Heavenly Father, who never loses sight of me.

At the beginning of 2019, when the new Come, Follow Me was just beginning, we could feel the excitement of the students. Even though we were studying from the Doctrine and Covenants in seminary, they started sharing things they had learned from studying the New Testament with their families. They were so excited about it. When we studied Doctrine and Covenants 89 (the Word of Wisdom) in seminary, it was around the same time we were studying John 2 (when Jesus Christ turns water into wine) in Come, Follow Me. Finding common principles and ideas between the two readings allowed the students to share with their peers what they had learned at home. They were much more engaged, and the discussion was much more invigorating because the students had things to talk about. They were able to apply the things they had learned at home to what we were learning at seminary.

Seeing the needs of immigrants in Milan, Italy, Relief Society sisters organized a service opportunity to provide them with clothing and household goods. Some sisters donated gently used items, while others organized and cleaned the donations. Each sister’s offering was important. The Relief Society sisters helped visitors feel the love of Jesus Christ as they came to the donation center. Monia, a local Relief Society sister, said, “From little things come great things. And we can bless the people inside and outside the Church. It’s the gospel in action.”

One of the strongest recollections I have of being a missionary is how close I drew to the Lord through the practice of regular prayer. In my day the Mission Home was located on State Street in Salt Lake City. It was a large house that had been converted to a mission training center. It had large dormitory rooms with perhaps as many as 10 beds in a room. We checked in on Sunday night.
The week before I entered the mission field was an exciting time. There were a lot of parties and farewells. I am afraid that I was not properly rested and prepared for the training I was to receive at the Mission Home. As the evening of our first day in the Mission Home came to a close, I was weary. While waiting for the other missionaries to prepare themselves for bed, I stretched out on my bed and promptly fell asleep. My sleep, however, was interrupted by a feeling that I was surrounded. As the fog of sleep lifted, I heard the words of a prayer being said. I opened my eyes, and much to my surprise I found all the elders in my dormitory room kneeling around my bed, concluding the day with a prayer. I quickly closed my eyes and acted as if I was asleep. I was too embarrassed to get out of bed and join them. Even though my first experience with prayer as a missionary was an embarrassing one, it was the beginning of two wonderful years of frequently calling upon the Lord for guidance.