Gospel Story Finder

Jonathan sighed as he walked home from school. He usually looked forward to weekends. But lately there was more teasing and arguing in his family. Jonathan wished they could have more fun together.
That night, Jonathan got on his knees to pray. “Heavenly Father, I want to help my family get along better. Please help me think of a way to help them all feel loved. And please help them get along better. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Jonathan felt happier when he climbed into bed. He knew Heavenly Father would help him know what to do.
After dinner on Sunday, Dad gave out the assignments for home evening. “Jonathan, you’re in charge of conducting,” Dad said.
Jonathan smiled. He liked home evening. It was a special time when they all got to spend time together. It helped him feel close to each member of his family.
That gave Jonathan an idea! Maybe there was a way to keep that special feeling all week long.
On Monday night, Jonathan bounced in his seat as he waited for home evening to start. First his younger brother, Chris, said the opening prayer.
Jonathan stood up. “Thanks for that nice prayer, Chris,” he said. “Now I want to introduce something new. It’s called, ‘Saying the Nice Things.’”
“‘Saying the Nice Things?’” asked Chris.
“Yes! Whoever conducts gets to say something nice about everyone in our family. And they can’t forget to say something nice about themself! I’m conducting this week. So I get to say the nice things.”
Jonathan smiled at Chris. “Chris, you wake up happy every day. You’re a good example, especially when I feel extra tired.”
Chris smiled. “Thanks!”
Jonathan’s heart felt warm. “Joanna, you work really hard, but I never hear you complain. And you always make time for me.”
“Aww, I love you,” said Joanna. She ruffled his hair and gave him a big hug.
Jonathan’s heart felt even warmer. “Tag is a great listener. When I call him at college, he always gives me great advice and tells me to keep going. And before Benson went on his mission, he helped me love the scriptures. I miss him, but he’s doing a great job teaching people about Heavenly Father.”
Jonathan turned to Dad. “Dad, you help us have fun no matter what we’re doing.”
Dad laughed. “Even when we’re getting wet and muddy trying to plant our garden for the fourth time?”
“Even when we’re doing that!” Jonathan laughed. “And, Mom, you make the most delicious breakfasts for us every day before school. That’s what gets me out of bed in the morning!”
“Oh yeah!” Dad put his arm around Mom.
Mom smiled and blew Jonathan a kiss.
“Hey, now you have to say something nice about yourself, Jonathan!” Chris said.
Jonathan beamed. “With Heavenly Father’s help, I thought of ‘Saying the Nice Things.’ That makes me happy!”
Everyone smiled at Jonathan. “Saying the Nice Things” had made his family happy too.

August evenings are usually warm in Rexburg, Idaho. I knelt by my bed on such a night, the buzz of my fan chasing away the heat and drowning out the world. Two weeks of college had barely gone by. Each day I learned more about the other five girls I was living with, but my heart ached to be home with my family.
At home my family was having problems. I told my Heavenly Father how heavy my heart was. I did not ask for help; I just knew that He would listen. I finished my prayer and climbed into bed. I tried not to cry, but a few silent tears trickled down my face and onto my pillow. There was a knock at my door.
I quickly wiped away my tears.
“Come in,” I said.
One of my roommates opened the door. The hall light showed her silhouette. I looked at her, waiting for her to ask to borrow my phone or a shirt. Instead, she made her way over to my bed and said, “No one should cry themselves to sleep.”
The tears I had been trying to hold back came rushing out. She wrapped her arms around me. I do not remember exactly what she said to me, but I remember how I felt. She reminded me that Heavenly Father was aware of my problems and that He loves me. She stayed by my side until I finished crying. She left, and I lay in bed thinking about the things I had learned.
I knew that my roommate had heard and followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost. I was grateful for her willingness to obey. I realized how much my Father in Heaven loves me. He knew I was sad and needed someone to comfort me. I know that He would have held me in His arms if He could. Instead, He sent someone close by to share His love with me. And I know that it is my job to reach out to others and share our Father’s love with them.

Elder James E. Talmage, a man who is remembered for his doctrinal teachings, showed great kindness to a neighbor family in distress. They were complete strangers to him. Before he was an Apostle, as a young father, he became aware of great suffering at a neighbor’s home whose large family was stricken with the dreaded diphtheria. He did not care that they were not members of the Church; his kindness and charity moved him to act. The Relief Society was desperately trying to find people to help, but no one would because of the contagious nature of the disease.
When he arrived, James found one toddler already dead and two others who were in agony from the disease. He immediately went to work, cleaning the untidy house, preparing the young body for burial, cleaning and providing for the other sick children, spending the entire day doing so. He came back the next morning to find that one more of the children had died during the night. A third child was still suffering terribly. He wrote in his journal: “She clung to my neck, ofttimes coughing [germs] on my face and clothing, … yet I could not put her from me. During the half hour immediately preceding her death, I walked the floor with the little creature in my arms. She died in agony at 10 A.M.” The three children had all departed within the space of 24 hours. He then assisted the family with the burial arrangements and spoke at their graveside services. This he did all for a family of strangers. What a great example of Christlike kindness!

First, in a basketball game when the outcome was in doubt, the coach sent me onto the playing floor right after the second half began. I took an in-bounds pass, dribbled the ball toward the key, and let the shot fly. Just as the ball left my fingertips, I realized why the opposing guards did not attempt to stop my drive: I was shooting for the wrong basket! I offered a silent prayer: “Please, Father, don’t let that ball go in.” The ball rimmed the hoop and fell out.

From the bleachers came the call: “We want Monson, we want Monson, we want Monson—out!” The coach obliged.

I never was a basketball star. What timing—to be a freshman at the University of Utah when All-Americans Arnie Ferrin and Vern Gardner dominated the boards.

I fared much better at fast-pitch softball. My most memorable experience in softball was a thirteen-inning game I pitched in Salt Lake City on a hot Memorial Day. The game was scheduled for just seven innings, but the tied score could not be broken. In the last of the thirteenth, with two men out and a runner on third, the batter hit a high pop fly to left field. The catch was certain, I thought. And yet the ball fell through the hands of the left fielder. For thirty-eight years I have teased my friend who dropped the ball. I have promised myself I will never do so again. I’m not even going to mention his name. After all, he, too, remembers. It was only a game.

On another occasion, while pitching a game at Pioneer Park, I was absolutely stunned to see that the other team had placed a one-armed batter at the plate. Now how does a pitcher deliver the pitch to such an opponent? I tossed a gentle lob over the plate. To my amazement, the batter knocked a single, right over the second baseman’s head. My temper flared. The next batter was a returned missionary from Mexico, Homer Proctor, six foot two and about 210 pounds. I pitched him fast, high, and inside. On the first pitch, he lifted the ball right out of the park for a home run. I shall ever remember the smile of that one-armed runner, Bernell Hales, as he passed second and third and gleefully streaked for home. I felt like crying, but I broke out laughing, as did each player on both sides. We had a wonderful time.

Christmas was just three days away, and there were huge piles of snow by the barn and corrals. Grandpa had pushed them there with his tractor so that Mom and Grandma could go to the store when they needed to. The windows in the house were covered with frost, and my brothers, Alma, Aaron, and Jared, and I knelt on the sofa and pressed our hands against the glass to melt little peepholes so that we could look out into the night.
Grandpa’s haystacks looked like huge cupcakes topped with white sugar frosting. His cows, huddled under the sheds, were blowing big puffs of steam from their noses and bunting each other to find a warm place on the straw.
“Well, have you seen any deer?” Grandpa asked, coming up behind us.
“Deer?”
“Sure,” Grandpa said, winking. “I’ve never seen as many deer as I have this year. There’s so much snow in the mountains that the deer can’t find enough to eat, and they come down and dig in the fields and meadows for grass. Sometimes they even nibble at my haystacks.”
“Really?” I asked.
Grandpa nodded his head. “That’s a fact, Jarom. About this time every evening they start coming down the mountain.”
We pressed our faces against the icy glass until our noses and cheeks were numb with cold.
“It’s too dark to see much,” Aaron said, still squinting through his peephole.
“Do you really think there might be some deer now?” Alma asked.
Grandpa laughed. “Why don’t you boys get your boots and coats on. We’ll go out and turn on the Christmas lights. Maybe we’ll see something.”
Before Grandpa could say another word, all four of us were racing for the kitchen closet. We pulled on our boots, squeezed into our sweaters, tugged on our coats, and jerked our knit caps down over our ears. Finally we were ready to go.
Grandpa carried Jared, who is only two, and took me by the hand, while Alma and Aaron led the way outside. The cold burned our cheeks and made our eyes water. As we clumped across the snow, it crunched and chittered under our boots and made us laugh and want to stomp on it some more.
We tromped around to the back porch, and Grandpa flipped a switch. Suddenly there were twinkling yellow, red, blue, and green Christmas lights everywhere! Grandpa had tiny lights around his windows, along his roof, on the shrubs, and in the trees. He had a big fat Santa on an old poplar stump. And out in the middle of the lawn, under the apple tree, was a lighted manger scene.
For a while we just stood on the back porch and admired Grandpa’s lights. Then Grandpa motioned for us to be quiet and to follow him. We crossed the lawn and came to the alfalfa field fence. Grandpa slowly pulled a big flashlight from his coat pocket.
“Watch,” he whispered. He turned on the flashlight, and a skinny finger of yellow light jabbed into the night, cutting across the field. At first we couldn’t see anything but a few fuzzy shadows. Then we saw some orange sparkles out in the field.
“What’s that sparkling in your field, Grandpa?” Aaron asked, pushing against the fence so he could see better.
“They look like eyes,” I said.
“They are eyes, Jarom.” Grandpa chuckled and squeezed my hand.
“They are?” I asked. “Whose eyes are they?”
“They’re deer eyes. My alfalfa field is their favorite spot.”
“Do you think they belong to Santa?” Alma asked with a grin. “Maybe he lost them.”
Grandpa laughed. “Well, if Santa needs any deer, there are plenty of them here. There are probably twenty or thirty in the field right now.”
That night when my brothers and I went to bed, we couldn’t sleep. We each wrapped up in a blanket and crept to the bedroom window. Mom and Dad and Grandma and Grandpa were still talking in the kitchen.
None of us said anything for a while. We just stared out the window at Grandpa’s lights and squinted to see if we could spot any deer. Soon Jared fell asleep, and Alma and Aaron carried him to his bed. Just as they were covering him up, I whispered, “Look! A deer!”
Alma and Aaron hurried back to my side. “Where?”
“Out by the old poplar tree stump, where Santa Claus is standing. It’s just a shadow now, but it was moving.”
“I can’t see anything,” Aaron grumped. “That’s just—”
“It moved!” Alma cut in. “It is a deer!”
“He must have come to see Grandpa’s lights,” I joked.
“It doesn’t look very big,” Alma said.
For a long time we watched the deer wander around the bushes and trees, sniffing and nibbling. It even stopped by the manger scene and looked in at Joseph and Mary and the Baby Jesus. In fact, it ambled up to the house and stopped right by our window.
“He sure is a curious fellow,” Alma murmured.
For the longest time we watched the curious deer tiptoe around Grandpa’s yard. Suddenly it pricked up its ears, held its head high, and looked toward the highway, where the yellow lights of a car peeked over a hill and moved toward us. The deer bounded into the shadows and disappeared.
“I guess the car scared him,” Aaron said. “Looks like he’s headed across the road for the mountain.”
We thought our deer was gone forever. Then, when the car lights were right in front of Grandpa’s house, we heard the screech of brakes and a terrible thump.
“The deer!” Alma shouted, jumping up and starting down the hall.
Aaron ran after him, but for a moment I just stared out the window, trying to see the deer. The car had stopped, and Grandpa and Dad were running up the driveway to the road.
I pulled on my pants and shirt over my pajamas, stomped my feet into my shoes, and hurried down the hall. Mom and Grandma and Alma and Aaron were all looking out the kitchen window. I put on my coat and slipped outside before anyone saw me. I raced up the driveway to the road where the car was.
“Well, Brother Rawls,” Grandpa was saying, “I really can’t tell how badly he’s hurt; he just looks stunned.”
I saw our curious deer lying by the side of the road. He tried to get up but fell back down with his head lying on the snow. He looked sad and cold. Before Grandpa and Dad knew I was there, I ran over and knelt be side the deer. At first he jerked back, so I whispered, “I won’t hurt you,” and I touched one of his big ears.
“What are you doing out here, Jarom?” Dad asked. “I thought you were in bed.”
“We were watching out the window. We saw everything. Is our deer going to die?” I asked, looking around at Grandpa.
Grandpa tugged on his ear and came over to me and the deer. “I don’t know, Jarom. If he doesn’t have any broken bones and if he’s just bruised and shaken up, he might be all right.”
“Can we put him in your barn until he’s well?” I asked. “We can’t just leave him here.”
Grandpa looked back at Dad and Brother Rawls. “Well, maybe. But you can’t keep him, you know. You can’t keep wild animals. We’ll have to let him go if he gets better.”
“Let’s try,” I pleaded. “We have to try!”
Dad carefully picked up the little deer. The animal shivered just a little and shook his head and tried to kick his long, skinny legs. But Dad held him tightly.
“I don’t think he’s hurt much,” Dad said. “I think he’s just in a daze. Maybe a night in the barn will do him good.”
I ran ahead of Grandpa and Dad and opened the barn door and turned on the light. The barn was full of hay and straw, and I could smell the rolled oats in the grain bin.
“Let’s put him in the old horse stall,” Grandpa said. “We can shut him in there, and he won’t be able to run around and hurt himself.”
I scattered some straw around and got a pan of oats and an armful of hay. Then Dad laid the deer down. For a moment it lay real quiet on the straw with its eyes dark and wide and its nose quivering and its ears pricked up. Then it kicked its legs and pushed itself to its feet. For a moment it wobbled on its shaky legs and hung its head down, but after a while it limped around in the stall, sniffing the corners and smelling the straw.
“He might need some water,” Grandpa said. “Maybe Jarom—”
Before Grandpa could finish, I was out of the barn and halfway to the house. I burst into the kitchen and shouted, “Grandma, do you have a pan? Grandpa sent me for some water for the deer.”
Grandma got one of her old plastic buckets and filled it half-full of water, and I ran back to the barn with it. Grandpa and Dad and I stayed out there for a while, making sure everything was all right. Then we went back to the house, and Alma, Aaron, and I crawled back into bed.
“What’s the deer like?” Alma asked.
“Does he have horns?” Aaron wanted to know.
I laughed. “No, he’s just little, probably not even a year old.”
“Can we keep him and take him back to Arizona with us?” Aaron asked.
“No,” I explained, “Grandpa said you can’t keep wild animals. We’ll just make sure he gets well.”
“Maybe he’s one of Santa’s reindeer,” Alma said excitedly.
I smiled. “I think he’s too little to pull anybody’s sleigh.”
“We ought to give him a name,” Aaron said.
“Let’s call him Rudolph,” Alma suggested.
“That’s too much name for such a little deer,” I pointed out. “Why don’t we call him Rudy? That’s a good little-deer name.”
For a long time we lay in bed whispering about Rudy. Finally Alma asked, “Do you think Rudy will get better?”
“He just has to!” I said.
“Maybe we should pray for him,” Aaron whispered. “Then he’ll get better for sure.”
Quietly the three of us crawled out of bed and knelt down. Each of us said a little prayer for Rudy, our curious Christmas deer.
The next morning, before it was even light, we were all up and dressed and out in the barn, peeking into the stall at Rudy. He still limped a little, but I could tell that he was much better. He had nibbled at the hay and had eaten half the oats I’d given him the night before.
All that day we took care of Rudy. Grandma gave us some carrot sticks to feed him, and we changed his water every hour or so and made sure his grain box was always full. We kept throwing straw into the stall until Grandpa said that there wasn’t any room for Rudy. But we made the floor nice and soft for him to lie on.
That night we wanted to sleep in the barn with Rudy and make sure that he was all right and didn’t get scared, but Mom wouldn’t let us. Before crawling under the covers, we each said another little prayer for Rudy.
Rudy stayed in Grandpa’s barn two days. Then on Christmas Eve Dad and Grandpa said that we should let him go.
“Oh, but it’s Christmas, and it’s cold outside,” I said.
“And he’ll get hungry,” Alma added.
“And he might get run over again,” Aaron put in.
Grandpa shook his head. “Rudy’s a wild deer. He belongs outside so that he can run with the other deer. He wasn’t ever meant for a pet.”
We didn’t want to, but just before supper we opened the doors of the stall and the barn. At first Rudy seemed almost afraid to leave the barn. But as soon as he crept to the open door, he poked his nose out, looked around, and bounded up the driveway, across the road, and into the sagebrush on the mountainside.
That night after we had sung some carols, listened to the Christmas story, hung our stockings, and crawled into bed, Alma whispered, “I wish we had been the shepherds or the Wise Men and had taken gifts to the Baby Jesus. My Primary teacher said that at Christmastime you’re supposed to help people, and we haven’t helped anyone. I sure wish we had made someone’s Christmas special.”
“We helped Grandma make popcorn balls for the Bensons,” Aaron said.
“And we helped wrap presents for the Wilsons,” I pointed out.
“But I wish we could have done something for someone all by ourselves,” Alma sighed.
I rolled quietly out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Grandpa’s lights were twinkling in the night. The big Santa was glowing brightly on the old poplar tree stump. The manger scene was lighted up under the barren apple tree. Then I saw a shadow moving out by the bushes.
“It’s Rudy,” I whispered loudly.
Soon Alma, Aaron, and Jared were pushing their faces against the icy glass. Sure enough, Rudy was down on the lawn again, sniffing and creeping around, just as curious as ever. We all held our breath as we looked out the window. Rudy came closer and closer until he was right by the window. We tapped lightly on the windowpane, and Rudy looked toward us. For a long time he just stood there staring. Then he flipped his short, stubby tail once, turned, and bounded into the night.
“We did help someone this Christmas,” Alma said quietly.
“We did?” I asked, rubbing my cold, wet nose.
Alma nodded. “We helped Rudy. We helped him get well.”
“But is that anything?” Aaron asked.
“Of course,” I said. “All the animals belong to Heavenly Father. He cares about them too. Rudy needed help, and we took care of him. Helping Rudy was our special Christmas gift.”
All four of us nodded our heads, took one last look out the window, and crawled back into bed.

Another important decision that enhanced the texture of his life-map was made during a district conference led by his mission president and Elder Clifford E. Young, the visiting General Authority. In that meeting, Elder Cowan felt so strongly the influence of the Holy Spirit that he asked himself, “What could I do for a living that would bring me in contact with this kind of feeling?”
The answer, for him, was immediate: “Teach religion at Brigham Young University.” From that afternoon, he knew where he was going. Upon returning home from his mission, he waited a year and two months for the “fair daughter of Zion”—Sister Dawn Houghton. During the next three years in Palo Alto, California, with Dawn reading to him, he earned his master’s and doctor’s degrees in history at Stanford University.

My parents supported me in all my decisions. Mom and Dad stood with me on the stand in sacrament meeting the day I received my Young Womanhood medallion. They were there when I graduated from seminary. They were with me when I received my patriarchal blessing, and they supported me as I attended Ricks College.
They were both with me the day I walked to the doors of the temple. I had finally reached the day when I would enter the temple and receive the blessings I had learned about. The angel Moroni, glowing in the early morning sun on the temple spire, seemed to proclaim my joy to the world. I kissed my parents good-bye as I entered.
If I had waited to decide where to marry, it would have been too difficult to leave my parents outside and be married inside the temple. I wouldn’t have had a strong enough testimony of the gospel and the importance of the temple. I may not even have had the opportunity to decide. Leaders, bishops, and friends helped me. My family supported me. But I never would have made it if I hadn’t first decided that I was going to the temple.
In the temple I learned more about Heavenly Father’s plan for me. I hadn’t reached the end of my goal at all. I had only made one more step. So I decided right then to keep my temple promises, no matter how difficult. I decided I was someday going to return to my Heavenly Father.

President Kimball’s visit to Australia was the second official visit of a president of the Church. The first was President David O. McKay in 1955. When President McKay was in Brisbane, Australia, the mission president one day took him out to see the city. During the course of the day they were looking across the Brisbane River into a new suburb which was known as Chermside. President McKay said to the mission president, “Do we have any missionaries in that area?” The mission president said, “No.” President McKay said, “Send the missionaries in, for the people are ready.” Missionaries were sent into the area and they enjoyed tremendous success. Today Chermside is part of the Brisbane Fourth Ward of the Brisbane Australia Stake.

On 25 December 2010, my family and I were baptized. Everything looked different in our view. I was 12 years old; I was not able to understand much about the Church. As the days passed, I was able to understand the gospel better. I slowly started to learn about the importance of attending the temple. In a family home evening, we invited the missionaries to join us and to teach us. They taught us about how the temples on the earth help members to worship our Heavenly Father, to make and keep covenants and to perform ordinances for our ancestors. These teachings humbled us to be grateful and thankful to God for blessing us with temples on earth. After learning much about the temple, I and my family had a strong desire to go to the temple but because of some challenges in our family it took several years to prepare for the temple. Finally, the day came for me and my family to go to the temple in Hong Kong. It was 1 October 2017 and we were well prepared with family history work and with enthusiasm and with great joy in our hearts we were all set to enter into the house of the Lord.
As we started our journey from India to Hong Kong, our excitement to attend the temple increased. Our flight landed in the Hong Kong International Airport. We were standing in the line for immigration. An immigration officer took us to a different room and asked us lot of questions. Along with my family, there were five others with us from my home branch. My brother and I tried our best to help him understand that we were going to leave Hong Kong after a week. As proof we showed our return tickets, but he was not convinced. The immigration officer made the decision to send us all back to our country. We were devastated. Our excitement and joy turned into sorrow. My mom cried a lot. With great pain, we all returned to our country. Our ordeal continued in India. The Indian immigration authorities also questioned us as why we were sent back. It was with great difficult we were allowed to go. It was not easy to go through this situation, but we stayed faithful hoping that Heavenly Father would show his mercy on us to get into His house and receive His blessings for us.
A couple of weeks later, our branch was visited by a beloved member of our stake presidency. He gave a talk in the sacrament meeting and invited everyone to remain faithful in their trials and to prepare for the temple. He asked all the members to pray for us to go to the temple again. His talk was comforting to our wounded hearts and gave us hope that one day we will be able to attend the temple.
One day I was reading a talk given president Henry B. Eyring on “Try, Try, Try”.1 I learnt from his talk that great things never come easily. When I was reading his talk, the Spirit of the Lord confirmed it to me that I should keep trying because attending the temple is one of the greatest blessings of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ in this dispensation.
My family and I never gave up our desire to go to the house of the Lord. With the help of our loving church leaders, the prayers of the members of our branch and many others who helped us, once again we got the opportunity to go to the temple. We were blessed to go to the Taipei, Taiwan Temple. This time, we did not have any problems in passing the immigration. In the Taiwan airport, we were expecting the officers to ask us questions. But miraculously, they didn’t even ask us a single question. They just let us go. It brought great joy to us.
On 1 February 2018 we entered the temple. We had great experiences in the temple, there are no words to describe those feelings. My family was extremely happy after attending the temple. Our family did sealings, baptism for our ancestors and other ordinances.
While I was in the temple in Taiwan, I was thinking about our temple trip to Hong Kong and the story of Jonah and the whale came to my mind and helped me understand that we were meant to be sealed as a family in Taiwan temple not in Hong Kong.
My dear brothers and sisters we may face lot of challenges on our progress towards eternal life but it is after the trial of our faith that we receive witness as it is mentioned in Book of Mormon in Ether 12:6: “For ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.” We might have lot of works to do but don’t postpone visiting the temple. As you make attending the temple a priority, you will receive many blessings which our Heavenly Father has stored for us. I have received so many blessings personally. I testify that when we have true desire to go to the temple nothing can stop us2. And I promise you that when you attend the temple, you will literally feel the love that our Heavenly Father and the Saviour have for us.

Following Joseph’s death, Jane lived with President Brigham Young’s family until the Saints fled Nauvoo. During that time, she met and married Isaac James, another free Black, who was also a member of the Church.

After the Saints left Nauvoo in 1846, Jane gave birth to a son, Silas, at Winter Quarters. When the first pioneers left Winter Quarters in 1847, the James family were in the lead company of the main encampment.

Jane’s family struggled during their first years in the Salt Lake Valley, and though they lacked even the most basic necessities, Jane shared what little she did have with her neighbors. When Brother Lyman, a neighbor, received a call to serve a mission in California, he left his family with few provisions. His wife, Eliza Partridge Lyman, wrote, “Jane James let me have two pounds of flour, it being half of what she had.”
Jane worked hard to provide for her family, spinning and weaving cloth, making her own soap, and raising a large garden. She also worked as a laundress to earn much needed cash. Just as it seemed the family was starting to prosper, Jane’s husband left them. Twenty years later, he returned and made his peace with Jane and the Church. Jane held his funeral in her home when he died in 1891.
Despite her meager earnings, Jane James donated to the building funds of the Logan, St. George, and Manti temples, as well as to the Lamanite Mission. When asked how she managed to care for her family and still contribute to the building of the kingdom, she replied, “I pay my tithes and offerings, keep the Word of Wisdom, go to bed early, and rise early. I try in my feeble way to set a good example to all.”
Jane died in 1908. President Joseph F. Smith and other General Authorities spoke at her funeral, praising her unwavering faith and commitment to the gospel.

April told us her mother had died of a drug overdose when April was 14. April lived on the streets and had a baby she placed for adoption when she was 15. She struggled with her own drug addiction, started dealing drugs, and was eventually sent to prison.
“One day I wondered why I was even alive,” April said. “It wouldn’t have made a difference if I died. No one knew I was in prison. No one would even know I was gone.” She then prayed and asked God if He knew who she was.
The following week, a counselor in the prison handed her a letter from the girl she had placed for adoption.
“God must be looking out for you,” the counselor said.
“I write to my daughter now, and she visited me once,” April said. “I don’t know much about religion, but I know that God cares about me because He answered my prayer.”
After April shared her story, we all sat quietly with tears in our eyes.

The two months that I spent in the Missionary Training Center had prepared me well for the mission experience; I had a reasonable command of the language and felt comfortable teaching the memorized discussions. Culture classes had been sufficient to prepare me for the cultural conditions that abounded in Central America, and with daily vitamins I seemed to be staying healthy in spite of food that I was unaccustomed to and never seemed to get enough of. Sure, there were a lot of things about living in Honduras that took awhile to adjust to, but the actual missionary work didn’t seem to be a big adjustment.
I truly believed in and thought that I really understood most of the truths that I was sharing. I had grown up in an LDS home and was confident that my background had provided me with just about as much as there was to know about basic concepts like faith, baptism, and service. I’d probably heard Sunday School lessons on service a hundred times. I’d always participated in Church service projects and had even done a big community service project to earn an Eagle Scout Award. And now I was giving up two years of my life to share the gospel with people I didn’t even know. When I left on my mission, I was sure that if I hadn’t understood the meaning of service before, I certainly did now. However, in this foreign land, I was finding out that there were quite a few things that I didn’t fully comprehend—and service was one of them.
The rough and dusty trails that led from hut to hut among the palm and papaya trees had become familiar to me in the short time that I had been in the village of Santa Barbara. I had also grown accustomed to cold showers at 6:00 A.M. and was actually developing a taste for bananas at every meal. Our area was small enough that my companion and I knew the location of the homes of every member, and we were able to pass by at least once a week to encourage them to attend Sunday meetings.
The Sortos were a humble family with great faith, and I knew them as the family whose dog always came with them to the small rented building that we used as a chapel. He would sit patiently and wait for the meetings to end and then disappear along with the rest of the family up into the hills. Brother Sorto made adobe bricks for a living and would pick up an odd job here and there cleaning the brush from someone’s field. This he did with a machete, inch by inch, as he literally crawled along the ground.
One day as we approached the one-room, thatched-roof home of the Sorto family, the little dog with near perfect church attendance ran down the trail barking and wagging his tail to greet us. Looking into the open doorway we could see that Brother Sorto was lying on the floor, and the other family members were gathered around. As my companion and I got closer we could see that one of Brother Sorto’s thin brown legs was covered with a mixture of dirt and blood. A moment of explanation from Sister Sorto painted a sickening picture. While cleaning a field that morning Brother Sorto had been swinging his sharpened machete from side to side, cutting away the weeds and brush. The machete had slipped and, instead of swinging along the ground, had dug into his shin. He had made his way home and was now lying quietly waiting for the bleeding to stop.
It quickly became evident that no one quite knew what to do, so my companion and I went right to work. He took the oldest son with him and went down into the pueblo to round up some gauze and perhaps a little rubbing alcohol. I remained with Brother Sorto to clean the dirt and blood from his leg. Sister Sorto brought me a large towel and a basin filled with water that she had been warming over the fire. I tied the towel around my waist and knelt down on the dirt floor next to Brother Sorto. The floor was smooth and hard from being constantly swept with large, dried palm branches. As I began to bathe his feet with the clean water, Brother Sorto looked up, smiled, and took my hand. With the other I continued to clean away the dirt and blood.
“Esta bien, hermano.”
“Te quiero, elder,” he replied.
My heart filled with love for this man, and suddenly my mind was flooded with images from the scriptures:
“He riseth from supper, and laid aside his garments; and took a towel, and girded himself.
“After that he poureth water into a bason, and began to wash the disciples’ feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith he was girded” (John 13:4–5).
So many times I had read the account of Christ performing that sacred ordinance. So often I had sat through lessons on service and humility, and now, suddenly, kneeling on the floor in a little adobe hut in the hills of Honduras, it all made sense. Jesus, throughout his ministry, showed us the perfect example through the love and service he gave. Service should be given because there is love, not because there is an obligation.
“Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver” (2 Cor. 9:7).
As the dirt and blood were washed away I could see that the wound was not as deep as I had first anticipated, but the lesson I had learned affected me more deeply than I could have imagined.
Maybe the true meaning of service isn’t found in all of those big projects but rather in the simple everyday kindnesses that we can show one another.

Some years ago, while visiting the members and missionaries in Australia, I witnessed a sublime example depicting how a treasury of testimony can bless and sanctify a home. The mission president, Horace D. Ensign, and I were traveling by plane the long distance from Sydney to Darwin, where I was to break ground for our first chapel in that city. En route we had a scheduled fueling stop at a remote mining community named Mt. Isa. As we entered the small airport, a woman and her two young children approached. She said, “I am Judith Louden, a member of the Church, and these are my children. We thought you might be on this flight, so we have come to visit with you during your brief stopover.” She explained that her husband was not a member of the Church and that she and the children were indeed the only members in the entire area. We shared experiences and bore testimony.
Time passed. As we prepared to reboard, Sister Louden looked so forlorn, so alone. She pleaded, “You can’t go yet; I have so missed the Church.” Suddenly, over the loudspeaker there was announced a 30-minute mechanical delay of our flight. Sister Louden whispered, “My prayer has been answered.” She then asked how she might influence her husband to show an interest in the gospel. We counseled her to include him in their home Primary lesson each week and be to him a living testimony of the gospel. I mentioned we would send to her a subscription to the Children’s Friend and additional helps for her family teaching. We urged that she never give up on her husband.
We departed Mt. Isa, a city to which I have never returned. I shall, however, always hold dear in memory that sweet mother and those precious children extending a tear-filled expression and a fond wave of gratitude and good-bye.
Several years later, while speaking at a priesthood leadership meeting in Brisbane, Australia, I emphasized the significance of gospel scholarship in the home and the importance of living the gospel and being examples of the truth. I shared with the men assembled the account of Sister Louden and the impact her faith and determination had had on me. As I concluded, I said, “I suppose I’ll never know if Sister Louden’s husband ever joined the Church, but he couldn’t have found a better model to follow than his wife.”
One of the leaders raised his hand, then stood and declared, “Brother Monson, I am Richard Louden. The woman of whom you speak is my wife. The children [his voice quavered] are our children. We are a forever family now, thanks in part to the persistence and the patience of my dear wife. She did it all.” Not a word was spoken. The silence was broken only by sniffles and marked by the sight of tears.

A teachers quorum decided that to prepare for their missions, they would all learn the missionary lessons found in the missionary lessons in Preach My Gospel. Each month, as part of their class, they would practice teaching each other. But that wasn’t enough. They wanted to do more. They noticed an unbaptized young man whose mother was a member and another young man who had stopped coming to church. They decided to go teach the missionary lessons to these young men. How great was their joy when the nonmember boy was baptized and the less-active boy returned to activity and was ordained to the proper priesthood office.

When my grandfather James E. Fisher, born in 1865, was set apart for his mission, he was told: “You may have the gift of tongues if necessary, that you shall use the language fluently that is foreign to your mother tongue, that those who listen to you may listen in their own tongue.”
Within a few weeks after his arrival in New Zealand, a Maori boy came running to him and excitedly speaking in Maori said, “Come quickly, my father is ill. He is possessed of an evil spirit.”
Elder Fisher understood every word the boy said. He and his companion quickly followed the boy to his house and found a frightening situation. The man was entirely out of control, screaming, cursing, and leaping high into the air. When the missionaries entered, he shrank away and said in Maori, “You can do nothing. Go away.”
James E. Fisher took hold of the man and said quietly, “Be calm.” The missionaries laid their hands upon his head, blessed him, and commanded the evil spirit, by the authority of the holy priesthood, to depart. The man then thanked them for their assistance.
From that time on, James E. Fisher could understand the Maori language and rapidly learned to speak it fluently. He never lost his ability to speak the language. More than 40 years later, he met some Maori people at general conference in Salt Lake City and carried on a conversation with them easily and fluently in their native tongue.

One day they felt impressed to go to the farthest part of the town, out along the edges of the sugarcane fields. As they walked down the street, they saw two men sitting on their porch, and they stopped to talk with them. This was the first time they met Julian and his son, Victor. Julian immediately invited them in to have some yuca with butter and listened to the message they had to share. He was interested and asked them to come back and teach him more.
The following day the elders were in the town center doing street contacting when they met Carmen, Julian’s partner. As they started talking with her, they learned that Julian had told her all about what he had learned the day before. The elders returned that afternoon and taught Julian and Carmen how families were part of God’s plan. They learned that the couple had been together for over 30 years, with children and grandchildren, but had never gotten married. The elders asked what they thought about getting married. At first, Carmen was eager, and Julian was hesitant. Two weeks later, when they were married, he was emotional about finally being married to the woman of his dreams.

When I was in kindergarten, my parents and I went to the school book fair. They bought me some stickers. When we went home, we found we had accidentally taken two sheets of stickers, instead of just the one we had paid for.
The next day, my teacher gave me permission to return one sheet. The book fair was gone, but the library assistant thanked me for being honest.Emma M. Wilde, age 8Calgary, Alberta, Canada

Maike Adler:
“I grew up as a member, but about the time I was 14, I had to decide how committed I was—which way my life would go. Would I go with my friends to the parties they kept inviting me to, or would I go to seminary? I talked to my parents, and I prayed. I gained a testimony, and I knew I had to go to seminary.
“Without the Savior, my whole life would be totally different—my friends, my values. I wouldn’t know why I’m here. There are a lot of people with advice, but the values and morals of the world change and shift. If I’m built on something that’s not firm and it shifts, I have to rebuild every time. You have to have something unchanging to build on. Christ never changes. His right is always right. You can lean on Him. He never lets you fall.”

Patricia: My best friend, Francini, and I are some of the only members of the Church in our school in Brazil, and we often find that the small things we do make a big difference.
One such small thing occurred in a Saturday math class Francini and I had together. On this particular day, Francini was absent. During class, the tests we had taken a few days before were passed back. I wasn’t paying much attention when the teacher placed Francini’s test on my desk and asked me to give it to her.
Since Francini and I had already discussed how we thought we had done, I was surprised that her grade was higher than we had expected. I looked at her test and saw that the teacher had failed to mark one incorrect answer as wrong. Without even considering, I told the teacher that Francini’s grade was too high.
What I didn’t realize was that the whole class was watching. As soon as I spoke, the class began to criticize me, saying that I was wrong to do that to a friend and that I only wanted my grade to be higher than hers.
I was confused and upset by the response. I was sure I had done what Francini would have done. But someone said it was impossible for anyone to be honest to the point of lowering his or her own grade. Everyone saw me as a traitor to my friend. I tried to tell them that Francini would have been honest about her grade and that truly honest people still exist in the world.
After much debate, the teacher and class decided that they would test us. The teacher said he would keep Francini’s grade wrong and that we would wait and see her reaction on Monday.
I didn’t like the idea. I felt that testing Francini was not fair. But the teacher had made his decision, and I couldn’t change it.
That weekend I was anxious about what would happen, even though I had confidence that Francini would do what was right. I fervently prayed that she would notice the error on her test.
In math class on Monday, the whole class was alert as they watched Francini pick up her test.
Francini: Shortly after class started on Monday, the teacher handed me back my math test. I was about to put it away without really looking at it, but then I noticed that my grade was higher than I had expected. I raised my hand and went to the teacher’s desk. I asked if he had graded the test correctly, and he answered that he had. I then pointed to my test and said, “But I made a mistake.” At that moment Patricia also came up to the teacher’s desk and told him that he had also left a wrong answer unmarked on her test and with all the confusion on Saturday, she had not noticed it.
The classroom immediately erupted. Some people began to murmur about Patricia telling me, but others gave embarrassed smiles. I was confused by all the different reactions to these events.
Later, Patricia explained what had happened on Saturday. I was surprised to know that I had been through a test unrelated to math and that my classmates had responded to my friend in that way. However, I was happy that I had been honest and that Patricia’s prayers had helped me be prompted to notice the mistake on my test. I am also grateful that my friend believed in me.
Patricia and Francini: Both of us learned a great lesson from this experience. Our testimonies have grown about the important role Latter-day Saints have in being witnesses of Jesus Christ and examples of His principles. We are grateful to the Lord for His gospel, which gives us the opportunity to make a difference.

I was first exposed to pornography when I was eight. I had no idea it was bad because no one had talked to me about it before. But when I was seventeen and started learning about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I realized that this habit I had indulged in for years did not align with the commandments or gospel standards. I determined to quit my habit as I further investigated the Church and then eventually became a member.
At first I thought it would be easy to quit seeking out pornography. I would go a couple days without it with no problem. But then stressors would hit, and I would slip back into my habit. This happened a lot. I felt so much shame, afraid people would think I was a dark, horrible person. So I hid it from everyone.
But I started to feel promptings to reach out for help. On my own I could only muster the willpower to go a small amount of time without pornography.
When I was finally honest with my bishop and my best friend, they were compassionate and helped me to abstain. I left to serve a mission, and with the help of my mission president, I didn’t have any problems in the mission field.
But a week after I returned home, the COVID pandemic began. Alone, anxious, and depressed, I returned to my old habit. I was struggling almost every day, but I had learned to be open about it and sought help from loved ones again.
I started attending Brigham Young University. I knew I needed to get my problem under control, but even while I tried my best, I would slip up when I was alone and stressed. Every time I tried and failed, I felt like I was back to square one. I read my scriptures, prayed constantly, and did all I could to connect with Christ, but I was losing hope. Pornography was hindering my progression in life in many ways, especially spiritually.
And then I discovered a BYU club where students who were struggling with pornography could meet and support each other. The people I connected with were so loving and supportive. Right from the beginning, they helped revive my hope for a life free from pornography.
Faith, hope, and a daily accountability group helped me begin to abstain from pornography for longer amounts of time. A week would pass without pornography, then two weeks, then a month. I was achieving previously unreachable lengths of time. It was a miracle. I learned that to make progress, I needed to have small goals instead of an all-or-nothing outlook.
I fully recognize that my journey to overcome pornography is not over. Pornography is complicated and often stems from unmet needs or other underlying issues that need to be resolved. Statistically speaking, I could slip up again, but my mindset has changed.
I am striving. I am striving every day to turn to temporal and spiritual resources and to Jesus Christ to help me become better. My flicker of hope grows each time I choose to turn away from pornography; the feeling is amazing.
I used to think I was a horrible person for having this problem, but Brother Bradley R. Wilcox, Second Counselor in the Young Men General Presidency, shared some words that give me hope: “Some mistakenly receive the message that they are not worthy to participate fully in the gospel because they are not completely free of bad habits. God’s message is that worthiness is not flawlessness. Worthiness is being honest and trying. We must be honest with God, priesthood leaders, and others who love us, and we must strive to keep God’s commandments and never give up just because we slip up.”1
Like the boy in his talk who struggled with pornography, I strive for “small, reachable goals” and “incremental growth,” instead of “all-or-nothing expectations.”2
I have come far in overcoming pornography because of the help I have received from loving Church leaders and friends. But what also helped me was holy habits. When I was struggling the most, I often felt unworthy to participate in spiritual practices—I falsely believed Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were ashamed of me. But I learned that They always lovingly invite me to turn to Them through the scriptures, prayer, and temple worship to access Their healing power, especially during my darkest moments.
I have no doubt that as I continue to strive, I will one day be able to return to my Father in Heaven knowing I did my best. And I will weep at the feet of my Savior, Jesus Christ, for making it possible. I am beyond grateful for the gift of His Atonement and for all the chances He gives me as I keep trying.