Gospel Story Finder

Mamãe, can we go see the Jesus statue at the visitors’ center today?
I want to go too!
Let’s wait until it stops raining.
Hours later …
Can’t we just get a little wet from the rain? We don’t mind!
OK! Let’s grab our raincoats.
I want to wear my Sunday clothes.
That’s a great idea!
Let’s hurry!
We’re almost there!
Bem vinda!
Can we see the statue of Jesus?
Of course! Follow me.
Look, Mamãe!
Jesus is our Savior. Imagine what it will be like when we see Him someday!
I can’t wait!

A few years ago my back started hurting. I was kind of worried, so I went to see our family chiropractor. He took some X-rays, saw something weird going on, and recommended me to a specialist.
I was right. There was something wrong. The specialist told me I have a condition called ankylosing spondylitis. It’s a form of arthritis where your spinal joints get inflamed and your spine tries to fuse itself together.
My prescription was to exercise and stretch four or five days a week for about 20 to 30 minutes. If I don’t, my back starts to hurt again. Ankylosing spondylitis can also lead to other serious health problems.
Someday I may have to treat my condition with drugs, but for now, I stretch every day. I also go to the gym several times a week. Recently, I went for a checkup. The doctor told me that because I was diligent with stretching, my spine is in a lot better shape than many people my age.
I’m thankful for my body despite its limitations. I try not to focus on my health problems and just use my body the best I can. A few months ago, I found out that the lead singer of one of my favorite rock bands also has ankylosing spondylitis. Rather than complain, he said a lot of the great things in his life have come from struggling.
I try to remember the fact that Jesus Christ suffered every pain for us. He knows the mental and physical pain of any condition, including ankylosing spondylitis. He is the most equipped to help us, and He has helped me be grateful for my body and its abilities.
Samuel M., 21, Utah, USA

Recently one of our BYU-Hawai'i graduates, Mele Ha'unga Hansen told a wonderful story that illustrates this concept.

When Mele was three years old, her mother and father were students at BYU–Hawai'i, living in married student housing. One day in a pick-up rugby game on the front field, her father, Semisi Ha'unga, was severely injured. Paralyzed and suffering from a broken neck, Semisi languished for several weeks and died, leaving his wife 'Ahoika and four small children. The sadness was almost too much to bear, but 'Ahoika remained faithful and optimistic. Eventually she had to return home to Tonga with her children. She worked for the LDS Church Schools, which paid her a modest salary. A widow and single parent with several children, 'Ahoika eeked out a living. Mele, her youngest daughter gave the following account:

I remember one day in Tonga, Mom called a family council and told us children that we had just enough money from that particular pay check to pay tithing and the monthly bills, but there was no money for food. I remember complaining to Mom: "Why can't we use the tithing money for food. Heavenly Father has plenty of money. Your tithing is so small compared to what he has. Does God want us to starve to pay tithing money He doesn't need?"

But Mom was adamant. "It's His money," she said. "He may not need it but we need to pay it. It is our need, not God's to pay tithing."

Mele spoke of the prayers of her widow mother and the anxiety of the children, when suddenly appeared at their home their father's brother, not a member of the Church. He was laden with foodstuffs from his garden plot, yams, sweet potatoes, green bananas, and a roasted pig. There was corned beef, bread. The sight of all this food made a deep impression, but it was their uncle's story that moved them most. He said, "I was working in my plantation today. At noon I lay down to rest under a tree. I slept and saw your father walking toward me. When I saw him I knew instantly why he had come to me. You were hungry and without food."

Thus the widow's faith was vindicated in front of her children. 'Ahoika, still a widow, represents the millions of devoted Latter-day Saints over the world whose faith and trust in paying their tithing make sacrifice joyful. Her generous, believing nature is part of her cultural as well as her spiritual heritage.

The giving of additional patriarchal blessings may have been more common in the past. My grandmother, Maude Wetzel Faust, was challenged like most mothers with the raising of her children. She made an offhanded remark that the children were driving her crazy. My grandfather took her to the stake patriarch who blessed her that her “reason would never be dethroned.” The blessing was literally fulfilled. She died at eighty-seven years of age, and she was joking with the nurses on the way to the operating room where she died from a ruptured appendix.

11-year-old Riley Quigley has a few challenges that normally would stop him being able to attend an event where there are crowds and a lot of noise.
On 11 November 2020, during the lockdown, Riley went with his aunt to the Poole Park War Memorial and, on behalf of Poole Ward of the Poole Stake, very thoughtfully laid a Royal British Legion poppy wreath.
After laying the wreath, Riley said that it made him feel very proud to have been able to do something as special as that.
He then went around and helped tidy up some of the other wreaths that had previously been laid but had been blown about by the wind because “they needed to look nice and tidy for the soldiers who died”.
His bishop, Ben Silsby, said, “He looked so smart and respectful. I am very proud of him.”

I trust in God. I know He lives and hears my prayers. In order to know these truths, I immersed myself in the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
After I was baptized I felt the fiery darts of the enemy confuse me and cause me to put off attending seminary. A few days later I began reading the Book of Mormon with a prayer to our Father in Heaven. I felt a beautiful response in my heart that motivated me to attend seminary and apply each class to my life.
Now I understand that when I was baptized into the Church I gained many blessings. I feel very happy to have my testimony as a constant source of strength each day of my life.
María Marcela Vargas Del Águila,Santa Anita Ward, Lima Perú Santa Anita Stake

In 1998 I spent some time in the town in Northern Ireland doing research and conflict resolution for a United Nations group called INCORE.
During that time I spent most of my Sundays in Catholic and Protestant churches studying how the use of sermons promoted either peace or conflict. One Sunday, weary of all the research and looking for something more familiar, I walked across town to the LDS Chapel.
The building was large and beautiful, but inside, only a small handful of Saints filled the pews. Knowing that the church rarely builds big buildings until they have enough Saints to fill it, I enquired to one of the members.
He said something to that I had never considered before. The conflict between Protestants and Catholics there had torn apart the LDS Church as well. Old hatreds resurfaced and many good members left the church angry and bitter at each other.
The missionaries there reported similar stories in proselytizing. With people carrying war in their hearts, they had little time or use for a message from the Prince of Peace.
One member said to me, "Our hearts are so hard we no longer will let the Spirit in. We can't hear the Spirit. Our fighting is drowning Him out."

Mobile phones are expensive in Chile, but I set a goal in 2016 to earn enough money to buy one. For an entire year, I bought candy and alfajores1 wholesale and sold them to my friends at school. I saved everything I made. I didn’t go out to lunch, and I didn’t go to the movies.
I didn’t want to ask my parents for a phone. I wanted to be able to say I earned it myself. My dad encouraged me. “Carol, keep it up,” he would say.
I learned a lot. Nothing is free. Goals take effort, but we should never give up. When we earn things and realize how much work it takes to get them, we value them more.
I learned that I have to decide what I want to achieve and where I want to go. If I want to get married in the temple, I need to go to church and seminary and later institute and young single adult activities. And I need to date worthy young men. Achieving goals requires sacrifice now for something better later.
Carol, 15, Chile

My grandparents weren’t members of the Church. After they passed away, my family was able to serve as proxies for their baptism and temple ordinances. It’s amazing to know that even though those loved ones we had here on earth are gone, we can still be with them in the next life. Before entering the baptismal font when I was a proxy for my grandma, I was overwhelmed by the Spirit, and I knew that what I was doing was right—not just for me, but also for my grandma. After the baptisms for them, my parents and I felt the Spirit much stronger, knowing that our ancestors can be with us in the next life. I miss my grandparents, but I know that we can all be together one day in the presence of God.

One of my most insightful spiritual experiences occurred when I was thirteen or fourteen years old.
I grew up in Salt Lake City, Utah, and the Church was a large part of my life. One day the Aaronic Priesthood boys in our ward went to Welfare Square for a service project.
We were assigned to unload a large railcar full of lump coal. We were to climb up on the load and throw lumps of coal off to either side of the track.
At first, it was fun, a new adventure. It was fairly easy to toss the coal off.
However, as we worked our way down into the railcar, it became necessary to pick up the lumps, raise them over our heads, and throw them over the side. By then we were getting tired and very dirty. The lumps of coal seemed heavier and heavier. It became a difficult task.
I remember going home that night and taking a bath. I had coal dust all over me. It was in my throat and nose. I could taste it and smell it. I felt terrible and decided that I would avoid doing anything like that again.
A few weeks later my family celebrated the Thanksgiving holiday. Under my parents’ guidance, we had prepared little boxes of food for the widows in our neighborhood. My sister and I made popcorn balls and wrapped them in waxed paper. My mother made cookies. We also added fruit and some candies to the boxes. We took these gifts to the homes of five or six widows.
No lights were burning in the last home. We knocked and waited, but no one came to the door. Just as we were about to leave, we saw a light appear at the end of the long hall. Then we heard the footsteps of this elderly sister, who lived alone. She opened the door, greeted us, and invited us in.
As we walked down that long hallway, I felt the cold. There was no heat at all in the house except in the small room at the end of the hall, where she invited us to sit down. A fire was burning in the small fireplace there.
We presented the elderly sister with our gift, sang some Thanksgiving songs, then began to talk about the things for which we were grateful. When it was our hostess’s turn, she said, “One of the things I am grateful for is that you came tonight instead of last night. This afternoon I received a delivery of lump coal from Welfare Square, and so we are able to all sit here and enjoy this fire.” I realized that I had helped make the coal available to her.
That was an impressive experience for me. I sensed as never before the importance of the gospel principle of caring for others. I saw the earlier experience of unloading that coal in an entirely different light and with an entirely different spirit. That Thanksgiving experience has affected me the rest of my life.

David dove off the boat ramp into the deep, green water, down and down, looking for the happiness he’d always found when swimming in the pond. The pond was on his grandfather’s land, and he was staying with his grandparents, at least for now. He burst through the surface and gulped down the warm June air. The cows, which had followed him to the pond, looked startled at his sudden appearance from under the water, as if they hadn’t seen him do this a thousand times before. They were lined up on the wooden ramp like a row of animal bathing beauties on a diving board.
David chuckled at them and rolled over onto his back, remembering how it was when he was only five and his mother was teaching him to swim. He had clung to her, scared but excited, until she finally went under the water and he went under with her, holding his breath for the first time. When they came up, he was laughing so hard that he couldn’t stop.
“What’s so funny?” she’d demanded. “You—your hair was going straight up!” It was the first of many days spent at the pond, giggling and splashing and laughing.
That summer his grandmother had planted yellow willows along the banks. Now they had grown up tall, just like David. On one side of the pond, his grandfather had given the willows a haircut, cutting their weeping branches off evenly six feet above the dusty path. On the other side, the willows were long and trailing, their leafy tips dipping into the green water. David caught some of these with his toes as he floated by on his back. He pulled them along with him for a little while, shaking the leaves higher up on the tree. He hadn’t found what he was looking for; he knew that he wouldn’t now. Even the combination of the warm sun and the cool water wasn’t enough to make him happy again.
Still floating, he looked straight up into the open sky and squinted at a passing bird. He could hear his grandfather working with his hoe. Even though he was eleven years old, his grandfather still stayed close by when he was swimming. He wondered how much longer he and Dad would stay with Grandpa. They had come to the farm as soon as school was out for the summer, because Dad knew it was David’s favorite place.
When his mother was still alive, the pond was the best place in the world. But Mom had died in the spring, and he missed her so much that his head ached from it. He wanted a whole family with a father and a mother. The sky suddenly blurred as if he were under water again. He desperately wanted to feel better, but he didn’t know how.
“Shoo, you moos!” He waved his arms. “Go on, move!” The cows lumbered off, settling down under the willows. He climbed onto the ramp and lay there, making a wet silhouette on the boards, and thought of his mother. She had been the only member of the Church in the family. He had gone to Primary, and Dad had listened to the missionary discussions, but neither he nor his dad had been baptized.
After she died, Dad talked with him about joining the Church. “Davy, I’ve decided to be baptized. I’d like you to be baptized with me, but you are old enough to decide for yourself.”
“I’ve already decided. I don’t want to be baptized with you.” David turned away so he wouldn’t see the disappointment in his father’s face. He didn’t know then—or now—exactly why he answered the way he did. He wasn’t sure of anything.
“All right,” Dad had said, “but will you think and pray about it while we’re at Grandpa’s? You know that if you’re baptized, we can go to the temple next summer and be sealed together as a family.”
David knew about the temple. He had learned about it in Primary, but all that he cared about now was that Mom was gone, that she wouldn’t swim and laugh with him again.
Dad was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on a Saturday afternoon, and the smile on his face as he came up out of the water was one of a very few that David saw anymore.
He was still thinking about that rare smile, when a bee buzzed close to his ear. He sat up. His swim trunks were nearly dry, and the planks of the boat ramp were getting hot in the sun. He remembered Grandpa telling him the story of building the boat ramp on the little pond.
“When Grandma and I were first married and bought this farm, Davy, there was no ramp, just a pond. Grandma said that she wanted to swim but that she wasn’t going to get her feet muddy getting out of the water—you know your grandma. So I went up to the lake to see how it was done, then came back and built Grandma the boat ramp.”
“Is that when the neighbors started to tease you?”
“Yes.” Grandpa laughed, remembering. “They wanted to know when I was going to bring my yacht up to our watering hole. But it didn’t matter. I loved your grandma so much that I would do anything for her. I still do.”
Now Grandpa’s words repeated themselves inside his head: “I loved your grandma so much that I would do anything for her.” Did Dad love Mom that much? He thought about his father’s plan to go to the temple next summer. Yes, he loved her enough to study and pray about the Church and then be baptized. What about me? he wondered. Do I love Mom that much?
The tune to a Primary song came into his head. Its last few words floated like a whisper into his heart: “A family is forever.”
He bowed his head and put his hands in his lap, praying for the first time since Mom died. “Heavenly Father, please help me to know what to do. Please help me to feel better. Please help me!”
Suddenly he was warm all over, with a feeling that started somewhere near his heart and spread out to his fingers and toes. He felt reassured and relieved, just as he had when he was learning to swim and felt Mom’s arms around him. There was something else too. He knew the gospel was true, and he wanted to be baptized and go to the temple the next summer with Dad. He would tell him tonight.
All at once he jumped up and took a joyful flying leap off Grandma’s boat ramp, making a gigantic splash in the pond. He rose quickly to the surface, breaking through the water with a grin on his face. The cows looked at him in surprise, as if they had never seen him do it before.

Marilu Ramirez of Zacatecas, Mexico, was only eight years old when she made her startling discovery: There on the street vendor’s magazine stand—somewhere between the newspapers and the television magazines—was a book with a blue cover and a golden angel blowing a trumpet.
Who knows how the book came to be there that day. It seemed out of place there on the rack, and it seemed to cry out to her to be picked up and read. The child paid for it and took it home.
As far as her mother was concerned, this was just another in a long line of strange religious books her daughter had brought home—and she punished the child for buying and reading it. The whole family thought Marilu was odd—too introverted, too obsessed by thoughts about God and religion. How could anyone explain the child’s dissatisfaction with the family’s traditional church? Why would she choose to waste her few extra pesos on religious books and pamphlets and then waste time reading them? But no amount of ridicule or pressure from family or friends made any difference.
To Marilu, this new blue book with the golden angel on the cover was different from all her other books. Something about it made her feel strangely wonderful inside, and she was crying before she had finished even the first page. Every page added to that feeling. “It was like filling a cup drop by drop,” she says.
Where was this peculiar book from? “I though it may have been from some obscure Oriental religion, or maybe from India,” she says. “I didn’t know how to find out which church it belonged to. But I prayed that I would someday find out. I already knew it was true.”
For the next nine years Marilu remained devoted to the book and studied it thoroughly. Then one day when she was seventeen, she saw two men in white shirts riding her bus. When she saw they were carrying books, she wondered if they knew anything about her book. But before she had worked up enough courage to ask, they got off the bus.
A month later, when she saw a similar pair of young men, she seized the opportunity. “Do you preach the gospel?” she asked them. The said they did.
“Do you know about a lot of different religions?” she asked. “I’m trying to locate one that isn’t very common.” And she told them about her Book of Mormon.
They elders eyed each other and then grinned. “We’re missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we’d love to teach you and your family.”
“No,” she insisted. “I just want to know if you can tell me which church uses the Book of Mormon.”
Was she joking? The elders wondered. “Do you know what we are called?” one of them asked. “Mormons!”
When they showed her their own copies of the Book of Mormon, she believed them—and she insisted on hearing more that very day.
During their first visit that evening, Marilu interrupted the discussion many times—not with questions, but with Book of Mormon verses she already knew by heart, verses that strengthened the concepts they were teaching. The elders were amazed at her knowledge of her well-worn Book of Mormon—at how easily she could find the very verses she was looking for.
This happened again and again during the next evening’s discussion. When they asked Marilu if she wanted to be baptized, she responded, “Yes, tomorrow!” With her parents’ permission, she was baptized the next day, 22 August 1984. And then she began her quest to serve a mission.
“I had wanted to tell others about the Book of Mormon since the day I found it when I was eight years old,” she says. “Now I felt I had to become a missionary.”
But she was only seventeen. Every year thereafter on her birthday, she asked her bishop if she was old enough yet to be called on a mission, but each year he told her she must wait until she was twenty-one. In the meantime, she taught Primary and Sunday School and continued to grow in her knowledge of the gospel.
Then—on the very day she turned twenty-one—her call came.
Sister Marilu Ramirez was prepared. A bright student, she was teaching elementary school even before finishing her university degree, and she carefully saved her earnings. By the time she received her call, she had saved up enough money to pay for her entire mission. At that point she gave up her job, with no assurance of finding one when she returned.
Her family was sure she was insane. The child who had wasted time and money on religious books was now throwing away a good job, all her savings, and eighteen months of her life. But once again, no amount of pressure made any difference.
Now on her mission, she prays for her family and writes them weekly.
On 24 January 1988, as her group is about to leave the Mexico City Missionary Training Center and enter their fields of labor, Sister Marilu Ramirez stands during a meeting to bear her testimony. Her jet black hair, pulled back and held in place with two blue hair clips, almost reaches her waist.
At the pulpit, she stands on a short stool in order to speak into the microphone. Her petite frame suggests that she might speak timidly, but her voice is powerful and her testimony is that of a mature disciple. “I have had to fight to get here,” she says with emotion, “and I have learned that without the Lord, I am nothing. But I have felt his infinite love for me, and I know in whom I have confided.”
The next day, as she meets her new mission president and his assistants, she again bears powerful witness of the Father’s love. “When I entered the temple for the first time a few days ago, I felt his Spirit and was overwhelmed by his love,” she says. “As I prayed to him, I asked, ‘Why do you love me so much?’ And I seemed to hear an answer: ‘Don’t you know I love all the world—all my children? I don’t want anyone to be lost.’ And I began to comprehend the great love he has for each one of us.” Her voice again fills with emotion. “I know that our Heavenly Father and his son Jesus Christ live and love us. I feel very honored to be a daughter of God and to serve him as a missionary.”
Sister Ramirez is currently teaching the gospel to non-members who come to the Mexico City Temple visitors’ center. In the evenings, she and her companion go out into the surrounding neighborhoods to teach families the gospel in their homes.
Like that eight-year-old child, the twenty-one year old missionary is still consumed with thoughts about God. And her cup, filled drop by drop when she read the pages of the Book of Mormon as a child, is now overflowing.

It was a beautiful shawl. Chi-wee could see that clear across the trader’s store. Dark blue on one side and glowing red on the other, and with a fringe of the same two colors, it looked warm and soft.
Chi-wee also saw the look in her mother’s eyes as she passed her hand over its surface. In Chi-wee’s heart a fierce little voice said: “My mother shall have that shawl.”
It was trading day for Chi-wee and her mother. In the early morning they had come in the wagon of Mah-pee-ti the sheepherder. They carried with them the pottery that Chi-wee’s mother had made to trade at the store for food and clothing.
It had been a long, bumpety ride from the high mesa town to the canyon store, a ride over the wide desert of many-changing colors, up and down sandy washes. But it was a ride that Chi-wee dearly loved and of which she never tired. There were many living things to see on the way: prairie dogs, lizards, horned toads, sheep, and sometimes, away in the distance, an antelope or a gray coyote. And then there was always the excitement of wondering whether Mah-pee-ti’s old wagon would hold together when they jostled down a deep wash and struggled up on the other side. But for as many years as Chi-wee could remember, the wagon had always made it.
Now Chi-wee came close to the shawl and felt it with her fingers. It was soft and very warm. “Will you buy it, Mother?” she asked eagerly, laying her cheek on the soft wool.
Her mother shook her head a little sadly. “No, my little one. We must trade today for food and not for the things we do not need.”
“But you do need a shawl—this shawl!”
“We will not speak of it anymore,” said her mother, turning away. “We have money for food only, my daughter.” Then Mother spoke to the trader of the flour, sugar, and grain that she needed.
Chi-wee stood looking at the shawl. Somehow, my mother shall have this beautiful shawl, she resolved. While her mother carried some of the food out to the wagon, Chi-wee went to the trader. “What is the price of that shawl?”
“Six dollars,” answered the trader with a kindly smile. “It is all wool and very warm.”
“Will you trade it to me for the necklace that I have on. See, the shells are the color of the sky when the sun comes up.”
The trader stooped and looked at it. “It is beautiful. I can give you two dollars for it. But I could not exchange the shawl for it. I’m sorry.”
Chi-wee felt her heart grow very heavy, and all the way home she had no eyes for the lizards, rabbits, and prairie dogs that scuttled out of the way, nor for the tumbleweeds and cactus or the faraway blue buttes. Her mind was busy with plans to earn money for the wonderful shawl. But how could she earn that much money before someone else bought it?
She could weave a little, but that took a long time, and it took money to buy the colored wools. She could try to make pottery, but she knew that she couldn’t make it well enough to sell.
When next they went to the trader’s, Chi-wee looked eagerly for the shawl. Hot tears stung her eyelids when she could not find it. “That beautiful shawl—has it been sold yet?” she asked the trader.
He looked at her for a moment with a puzzled frown on his face. “The shawl?” A look of remembrance came into his eyes as he answered her. “No, it’s still here. Do you want to buy it?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, looking to see that her mother was beyond hearing. “I want to buy it, but I have not all the money right now. Here!” and with trembling fingers she unclasped the little shell necklace and thrust it into his hand. “Could you keep the shawl a little while for me? I will bring more next time.”
“I will keep the shawl for you until the end of next month. If you can bring me the rest of the money by then, you shall have the shawl.” He turned to assist the other customers who had entered his store.
The next few weeks were busy ones for Chi-wee, happy ones too. Had her mother not been occupied with her own work, she might have noticed that Chi-wee made many trips into the desert for which she gave no explanation, and when she returned, she seemed to be hiding something. When the next trading day came, there was a bump under the little girl’s shawl that had not been there on other trips.
When they reached the trading post, she handed the trader a big jar of wild honey. Her heart was beating fast with excitement and happiness. She did not tell of the pain caused by the needle-sharp cactus quills that stuck her fingers or of the painful lumps on her arm from the stings of angry bees. There was just deep pride in her voice as she said: “I have brought this to pay on the shawl.”
There was a look she did not understand in the trader’s eyes as he took the honey. He turned quickly and spoke to a stranger standing nearby holding a parcel. Finally he turned back to her. “I’m sorry, little girl. I waited until the end of the month. When you didn’t come, well, I just sold the shawl to this gentleman. Wouldn’t you like any of the other shawls in trade for your bracelet and honey?”
To Chi-wee it seemed as if the world turned black. Her mother’s shawl had been sold to this stranger! She could not speak. Words would not come. Everything began to swim through the sudden rush of tears. She saw the stranger walk to the door with his bundle under his arm, and the trader turn to attend to those who waited at his counter. She stumbled out of the store and into the waiting wagon with a storm of anger and grief in her heart. But she did not cry anymore. She sat in silence all the way home.
When they reached home, Mother called her to help with the parcels in the wagon. “And take your package,” she said. “The stranger said that you bought it from the trader. With what did you buy it, little daughter?”
Chi-wee opened her eyes wide and stood as still as a statue while her mother placed the package in her arms. Then she tore off the paper. There was the shawl—her mother’s shawl! Attached to one corner was a little card. On it was written: “It is your love for your mother that has bought this shawl, little girl of the mesa. And it is my love for a little girl like you that gives you back your precious treasure.” And there, beside the shawl, wrapped in a bit of paper, was her pink shell necklace. Now Chi-wee cried hard—but the tears were tears of happiness as she gave the shawl to her mother.

My father taught me a significant lesson when I was young. He sensed that I was becoming too enamored with temporal things. When I had money, I immediately spent it—almost always on myself.
One afternoon he took me to purchase some new shoes. On the second floor of the department store, he invited me to look out the window with him.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“Buildings, sky, people” was my response.
“How many?”
“A lot!”
He then pulled this coin from his pocket. As he handed it to me, he asked, “What is this?”
I immediately knew: “A silver dollar!”
Drawing on his knowledge of chemistry, he said, “If you melt that silver dollar and mix it with the right ingredients, you would have silver nitrate. If we coated this window with silver nitrate, what would you see?”
I had no idea, so he escorted me to a full-length mirror and asked, “Now what do you see?”
“I see me.”
“No,” he replied, “what you see is silver reflecting you. If you focus on the silver, all you will see is yourself, and like a veil, it will keep you from seeing clearly the eternal destiny Heavenly Father has prepared just for you.”
“Larry,” he continued, “‘seek not the things of this world but seek … first … the kingdom of God, and to establish [His] righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you’” (Joseph Smith Translation, Matthew 6:38 [in Matthew 6:33, footnote a]).
He told me to keep the dollar and never lose it. Each time I looked at it, I was to think about the eternal destiny that Heavenly Father has for me.
I loved my father and how he taught. I wanted to be like him. He planted in my heart the desire to be a good father, and my deepest hope is that I am living up to his example.

To celebrate the rededication of the Laie Hawaii Temple, more than 2,000 youth gathered in November to present a program titled “The Gathering Place.” At the beginning of the event, the youth stood shoulder to shoulder in the Cannon Activity Center of the BYU–Hawaii Campus as they heard President Thomas S. Monson speak.
“Today will be a night you will never forget,” he said.
The participants danced, sang, and presented a visual display of island history and culture. It also celebrated Laie, Hawaii, as a “gathering place” for early Church members and others.
“It was the most amazing thing,” said Briana Garrido, 15, of Wahiawa, Hawaii. “I have never been so thankful.”

Scott sat slumped over in the backseat of the car.
“Are you feeling OK?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he moaned.
But Scott wasn’t feeling well. In fact, he felt like he’d just been hit in the stomach. And it was all because of what Sister Thomas, the Primary president, had said during Primary that morning:
“Children, next week is the beginning of a new year in Primary. That means you will all advance to the next class and have a new teacher. Isn’t that exciting?”
Scott didn’t think so. He didn’t want a new teacher. He liked his old one just fine. She told the best stories, and she always smelled good. “Mom,” he said now, “I’m not going to Primary next week.”
His parents looked at each other in surprise.
“I thought you loved Primary, Son,” Dad said, keeping his eyes on the road.
“I do! I—I mean, I did,” Scott said sadly.
For family home evening, Dad gave a lesson about how changes are a part of life and how we should welcome them as opportunities for growth. Scott knew that his parents were trying to help, but he didn’t feel much like growing at the moment.
It was easy not to think about Primary during school. And on Tuesday, Scott had violin lessons that kept him so busy practicing that he almost forgot about Primary completely—until Wednesday. That’s when he found a note taped to his front door. It was a small piece of white paper folded in half and with his name written carefully on the front. Scott unfolded it and read:
Dear Scott,
Welcome to our Primary class! I have been watching you each Sunday, and I know that you are a boy who is trying to live the gospel.
I will send you a few clues about myself. Can you figure out who I am before Sunday?
Your Mystery Primary Teacher
P.S. I have black hair.
Puzzled, Scott folded the note and stuffed it into his backpack.
On Thursday, this note was on his door:
Hi Scott!
I saw you playing outside with your friends yesterday. I like the way you get along so well with them. That’s a good quality to have. Do you know who I am yet?
Your Mystery Teacher
P.S. I like to ride bikes, too!
Who could it be? Scott wondered. He thought about the sisters in his ward. He couldn’t think of any black-haired, bike-riding ladies.
Scott raced home from the bus stop on Friday. He was disappointed to not see a note taped to the front door. He dumped his backpack in the hallway and went into the kitchen for a snack.
“It must have blown off the door,” Mom said as she handed him a familiar-looking piece of white paper. She smiled as Scott read it aloud:
Dear Scott,
I’ve heard that you are an excellent reader. That’s great because we will be reading the scriptures all year in class. Would you come prepared to read 2 Timothy 3:14–15 on Sunday?
Thanks!
Y. M. T.
P.S. Sometimes I wear glasses when I read.
When Scott took out the trash on Saturday, he found another note:
Dear Scott,
Tomorrow is the big day! I’m looking forward to having you in my class. Do you know me? I know you!
Love,
Your (Favorite) Mystery Teacher
P.S. I will be wearing something with flowers on it.
On Sunday, Scott was up and dressed before everyone else. “I thought you weren’t going to Primary anymore,” his mom teased.
“Well, I’m only going today.”
The chapel was nearly full when Scott and his family found their seats. Quickly he scanned each row. He couldn’t believe that so many women in the ward had black hair. He noticed Sister Veatch with little glasses perched on her nose, but she wasn’t wearing anything flowered. And Scott tried not to giggle as he imagined Sister Cousins riding a bicycle.
The Primary room buzzed with excitement as the children located their new seats. Scott and his friends settled into the two rows marked for their class. They were surprised to find the teacher’s chair still empty.
Emily leaned over and whispered, “It has to be Sister Hernandez. She has black hair, and when she comes to visit teach my mom, she always wears those funny little glasses.”
“But what about bike riding?” asked Stasha.
“I’ve seen her riding bikes with her kids!” Tyler offered. It was then they heard the sound of chair legs scraping the floor behind them. The children stiffened and held their breaths as “the mystery teacher” slipped quietly into her seat. Together they turned and peeked over their shoulders.
“Dad!” shouted Scott.
“Hey, Brother Weatherford! Nice tie!”
The mystery teacher put a finger to his lips and winked at the class. “Welcome to Primary,” he whispered.
Scott grinned and turned back in his chair. I think I’ll keep coming to Primary, he decided as Sister Thomas stood to welcome the children to the first day in their new Primary classes.

Let me share another story of a Church member who tried hard to magnify his calling and was blessed with an amazing spiritual gift. Brother John Macfarlane was called to be a choir director in St. George, Utah, in the 1860s. One year, he decided the choir needed a new carol for their Christmas program. He had little experience at writing hymns, but he was not afraid to pray for help, for the gift to compose.

"One night it came, suddenly, in a dream. John was awake instantly. He shook his wife, Ann, into wakefulness, crying out: 'Ann, Ann, I have the words for a song, and I think I have the music too!'" (Lloyd Wayland Macfarlane, Yours Sincerely, John M. Macfarlane).

The song that John was given in his dream has become a beloved Christmas hymn played and sung all over the world. We know it as "Far, Far Away on Judea's Plains." The music and the lyrics were inspired of God, given in the form of a spiritual gift to a dedicated choir director.

I am a telemarketer for a large corporation that is located on the eastern seaboard, but I work in Salt Lake City. Due to the nature of my work, I make phone calls all over the United States. Today I made my best call ever. It was the best, because today I learned about you.
I called a laundry and dry cleaning company in Virginia. After I transacted my business with the owner, he asked me where I was from. I replied, “Utah.”
“What part of Utah?” was his next question.
“Salt Lake City,” I responded.
“Salt Lake City? Well, you must be a Mormon,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“Yes, I am,” I said.
“I have two girls who work for me who are Mormons,” he continued. “They’re the best employees I’ve ever had. Those two girls are only seniors in high school, but they keep my store cleaner than any of my other employees, and they treat my customers great. They’re really polite and pretty … you know the ‘all-American’ type.”
He said, “Those two girls are amazing. Would you believe that they get up at 5:00 A.M. every morning and …”
“Go to seminary!” I inserted.
“Well, I don’t know what it’s called,” he continued. “But it’s some type of religious training. Then they go to school all day, and come work for me until 8:00 P.M. I don’t know how they do all of the things they do, but I’m sure impressed.”
“Would you believe that Mormon youth all over the world are going to early-morning seminary, five days a week?” I asked.
“Well, that’s one thing I have to say for your church,” he said. “You’re sure raising your children right. They’re the best.”
“Thank you,” I said humbly.
We finished our conversation shortly after that, but I hung up the phone feeling a real sense of pride in you two girls. You’re a prime example of what the Church is all about. You’re living the gospel to its fullest potential. Members who set examples as you have done help doors swing wide open for our missionaries.
I just want to let you know that I appreciate you and the lives that you and other Latter-day Saint youth throughout the world are living. Truly, you are not hiding your candle under a bushel (see Matt. 5:15) but are leading the way for truth and righteousness.
Thank you for all that you are doing for the Church. We need more young members like you.

It is a warm day—June 29, 1844.
A boat approaches a horseshoe bend in the Mississippi River. On that bend is a city. A traveler on the boat seeks to find the city on his map, but the map, printed a few years previously, shows no such city. On inquiry, he is told that the city is Nauvoo. A brief stop is to be made.
At the docking, the traveler becomes curious as to why long lines of people wait to enter a large home on the river front. Being in no hurry, he informs the boat’s captain that he is going to remain in Nauvoo, perhaps overnight.
As he approaches the end of the line, it becomes apparent that these are grief-stricken people. The ladies and many men are weeping.
“Excuse me,” he says, approaching a mourner, “but what are these lines for?”
The mourner looks up in amazement: “You mean you don’t know?”
“I’m a stranger here,” he says. “I just arrived on the boat.”
“Oh,” replies the mourner. “We are waiting to view the bodies of Lieutenant General Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum who were killed two days ago.”
“Lieutenant General Smith?” the visitor says questioningly.
“Yes, he was the lieutenant general of the Nauvoo Legion, an army of 5,000 men.”
“How many others were killed with them?” asks the visitor.
“None. That is probably the main reason why Joseph died. He believed that his enemies wanted his life alone, and if he had to die, he thought that the lust for blood would be satisfied without the rest of us being killed. He wanted his brother Hyrum to live, but Hyrum insisted on remaining at his side.”
“How did the trouble begin that led to their death?” asks the traveler.
“Well, the public reason given was the destruction of the press of the Nauvoo Expositor,” replies the mourner. “The newspaper was owned by Joseph’s enemies, and they published slanderous and inflammatory articles and lies, seeking to build hatred against Joseph Smith. So an order to close the paper was issued by the city council and the mayor, Joseph Smith.”
“Joseph Smith was also the mayor of this city?”
“Yes.”
“This must be a very new city,” says the traveler. “It isn’t even on my map.”
“Yes, it is new. Just six years ago this was nothing but a swamp.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, the traveler says, “It is a beautiful city. I noticed as I came up the river that the farms and corrals are outside of town.”
“Yes, this is the way Joseph planned the city.”
“Joseph planned this city?”
“Yes, so that the people, mostly farmers, could have the advantages of city life—so that we might associate together and learn from each other.”
The traveler then comments on the wide, straight streets and the well-built houses and wonders what the large building under construction is to be. The mourner informs him that it is the temple and that Joseph had designed it to be the dominant landmark in the city.
“Joseph Smith designed the temple!” the stranger exclaims. He then remembers: “You were telling me what led to his death.”
“Oh, yes, the Expositor incident,” says the mourner. “But the trouble began a long time ago, even before Joseph translated the ancient record.”
“He was a translator?” repeats the visitor. “What happened to the translation of this ancient record.”
“It has been published. It is called the Book of Mormon.”
“Has he published any other books?” asks the stranger.
“Oh, yes, as president of the Church …”
“President of the Church?” exclaims the visitor.
“Yes, president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Almost everyone here in Nauvoo is a member of the Church. As president he published the Doctrine and Covenants and …”
“What kind of book is that?” asks the amazed traveler.
“It is a book of revelations that were given to the Prophet Joseph Smith …”
“The Prophet Joseph Smith!”
“Yes. God the Father and his resurrected son Jesus Christ appeared to him and conversed with him in his youth. In fact, it was after Joseph, full of joy and enthusiasm, told his neighbors he had seen a vision that the persecution first began. Not only was Joseph persecuted, but also all of his followers were. Why, some of the people you see here have been driven from homes in New York, Ohio, and Missouri. In Missouri none of us were paid for our losses. Joseph tried to obtain redress but was refused. That’s the principle reason why he became a candidate for the presidency of the United States.”
“A candidate for the presidency of the United States!” cries out the bewildered stranger.
The mourner continues: “It was four days ago that Joseph bid a reluctant farewell to his family, looked longingly at the temple and then at his farm, and said, ‘This is the loveliest place and best people under the heavens.’ He then rode toward the county seat at Carthage to turn himself over to his enemies. He said, ‘I am going like a lamb to the slaughter, but I am as calm as a summer’s morning.’ He was promised protection and a fair trial, but two days ago, on June 27, a band of over a hundred men with blackened faces stormed the jail. A few moments later, Joseph and Hyrum lay dead.”
“How old was he?” asks the traveler.
“Thirty-eight years old,” says the mourner.
The visitor looks on in disbelief and thinks to himself: “Lieutenant general, translator, author, mayor, prophet, Church president, city planner, architect, presidential candidate—what manner of man was this Joseph Smith?”
This little scene has been imaginary, but well might many people have thought these things about Joseph Smith.

Mary Ann smoothed the pink dotted swiss fabric. “Just think, now that I’m almost twelve, I’ll have my first all-new dress for Easter!”
Mama smiled as she drew the black drip pan from the oven of the coal stove and tipped four steaming loaves of bread onto the table.
“It will be the prettiest dress I’ve ever made, Mary Ann. You’ve been so patient, never complaining,” Mama said.
Mama wrapped the hot loaves in a big white dish towel. “Do you think you can take these over to the Fitches without mashing them, dear?”
“I feel sort of funny taking things to Martha’s house. I don’t know how to talk to her.”
Mama sighed. “Martha needs a friend. I’ve noticed that none of the girls associate with her.”
“Do I have to take the whole batch? Don’t we even get to keep one loaf of hot bread for supper?”
“Now, honey, Sister Fitch is very sick. And Martha hasn’t learned how to make bread yet. I must have her over soon to teach her,” Mother continued half to herself. “She’ll have to feed that family. …”
“You mean her mother won’t ever get well?” Mary Ann cut in.
“I’m afraid not, and I’m sure Martha realizes this. That’s probably why it’s hard for her to talk. Now hurry with the bread so you’ll be back before dark.”
Mary Ann kicked pebbles all the way down the lane. The warmth of the bread felt good and its aroma made her hungry. This is all I do, she thought, carry good things from our kitchen to somebody else’s and then we have to skimp. I don’t think Mama could do her Relief Society president’s job without our help, she consoled herself.
The trill of a meadowlark perched on a fence post interrupted Mary Ann’s thoughts. And the trees along the ditch bank were breaking into a fresh spring green. They reminded her that Easter was next Sunday and that she would be wearing something new to church. Then she thought of Martha and an unhappy feeling crept over her.
As Martha opened the door, Mary Ann could tell that she had been crying.
“Mama thought you’d like a batch of fresh bread,” Mary Ann said, setting the bread on the kitchen table.
Martha leaned over and sniffed to get the full aroma. “Your mother always knows when we need something,” she said gratefully.
“Mama says you must come over and let her teach you how to make bread,” Mary Ann said brightly, trying to be friendly. Then another thought struck her, as she added, “You do have something else to eat, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, Mama told me how to make soup out of potatoes and onions from our pit.” She rubbed her hands nervously down the front of her dress. “I can’t cook very well, but I’m learning.”
A sound came from the bedroom and Martha turned to go. “Mama’s calling. Tell your mother thanks for the bread.”
Mary Ann slipped out of the door and hurried home.
Next day Mama cut out the pink Easter dress, and Mary Ann could hardly contain her excitement.
After supper when her sisters were all around the big kitchen table doing their homework in the warmth of the stove, Mary Ann watched her mother fit the last pieces of her dress together. “Now,” she said, “let’s go try it on.”
Mary Ann put down her book and slipped into the bedroom where she wiggled into a cloud of pink and white softness.
Just then, there was a knock at the kitchen door. “Mama!” her sister Liza called, “It’s Brother Fitch. He wants to see you.”
Mama hurried away while Mary Ann peered into the dresser mirror. She draped the fragile white lace around the high neck and drew the pink satin ribbon around her waist. The dress was beautiful!
When Mama returned, she was untying her apron with one hand and smoothing her hair with the other. “Take the dress off, honey. Sister Fitch has taken a turn for the worse. I’ll go with Brother Fitch and I may not be back tonight.” Mama put on her warm shawl and was gone.
Next morning Liza got breakfast ready, and Papa came in from his chores to help get the girls off to school. Mama had been up all night with Sister Fitch, and when Martha wasn’t at school, Mary Ann was really worried.
After school the five girls burst into the kitchen to find Mama treadling away on the sewing machine, the pink dress nearly completed. The aroma of chickens stewing filled the room. “Ummm!” they chorused. “Chicken and noodles for dinner.”
“Try on your dress, Mary Ann, and let’s see if it fits,” Mama said. “I’m anxious to finish it.” Then she paused and said more quietly, “Sister Fitch died early this morning, and I must make a white burial dress for her.”
“Oh, no!” Mary Ann cried. “That’s why Martha wasn’t at school today.”
“We’ll all have to pitch in and help now,” Mama said. “Liza, would you please stir up some noodles and roll them out for the stewed chicken and Mary Ann can take a pot of soup over to the Fitches for their supper. Tonight, Mary Ann, you can sew the lace on your dress while I cut out a dress for Sister Fitch. Her funeral will be Friday.” The girls could tell by looking at Mama’s eyes that she had already done her weeping alone.
That evening Mary Ann stitched the lace carefully around the high neck and the long full sleeves of her Easter dress. The white fabric was laid out on the big table. Only the click of scissors broke the stillness. Everyone was in bed except Mary Ann and Mother.
“The funeral is the day after tomorrow, Mary Ann, and I’m sure that gray dress is the best one Martha has. I wish I had material and time to make her a new one.”
Mary Ann hugged her new dress to her cheek a moment. She had been thinking of Martha even before Mama mentioned her. Finally she spoke. “Mama, I’d like to do something special for Martha. Would it be all right if I gave her my new pink dress? We could add some lace to my white one and it would be really pretty.”
Love shone in Mama’s eyes as she replied, “That would be very nice, dear, and I’m proud that you suggested it.”
In spite of her decision, Mary Ann swallowed a lump in her throat as she silently finished sewing the lace on the pink Easter dress.
On Friday when Martha followed the coffin into the small church with her father and brothers, Mary Ann caught her breath. “Isn’t she beautiful, Mama?” she whispered.
The delicate pink seemed to bring color to Martha’s pale face in spite of her sadness, and her dark hair fell in soft curls on her neck. Martha saw Mary Ann’s look of admiration and a shy half-smile lighted her sad face. Mary Ann nodded, then turned to her mother and whispered, “I hope she never knows who the dress was made for, and I won’t mind not having a new dress—I think I’ve found a new friend.”