Gospel Story Finder

It was a cool, overcast morning in 1919. Twelve-year-old Howard Hunter sat in the congregation in an aging frame chapel in Boise, Idaho. He had been a member of the Church only a short time, but he loved the gospel with all his heart.
Most of the members had mixed feelings that morning. There was excitement about the announcement of a plan for a new chapel. But there was concern about the cost. Ward members were asked to pledge what they could afford, but these were hard times and there was not a lot of money to spare.
The young boy rose to his feet. “I’m Howard Hunter, and I pledge $25,” he said in a loud voice. Howard had worked years to save that money, a large amount for anyone in 1919. But he knew the new chapel was worth the sacrifice. Others followed his example. The money was found. The chapel was built.

Here’s a fun puzzle game called Chinese Writing.
Trevor carefully eyed the odd collection of a dozen kitchen utensils on the floor.
“Who drew this picture?” he asked.
“I’m the artist,” volunteered Ken. Trevor looked carefully at Ken sitting cross-legged with head in hands. Trevor walked cautiously around the strange piece of artwork somewhat resembling a stick person.
“Well, judging from the cheese grater used for hair I suspect this is a drawing of a girl.” He carefully examined the large group of people surrounding him in the circle. “Because of the potato masher used for the mouth it must be someone with a pretty smile.” He glanced at Carol intently sitting cross-legged and head in hands. “I say it is none other than Carol Parkins.”
The group gasped in amazement. “How did you know?”
“I think I know how he did it,” boasted Cheri. “I’ll leave the room next and try.”
Do you know how Trevor did it? Did you catch the trick? That’s right. The artist gave away who the subject was by simply sitting in the same pose in which the subject was sitting. Trevor had only to see who in the room was sitting exactly like Ken. It was obviously Carol. Obvious? Well, only if you know the trick. You’ll be surprised how long it will take your friends to figure it out. Try it on them at the next birthday party you go to.

I could almost feel the jar of the wagon wheels as they crunched the rocks and churned the dust in the deeply rutted trail. It was an evening like many others during my teenage years in Paris, but on this particular night I was absorbed in a French television documentary about the Mormon pioneers. I had never seen anything like it before, and I marveled at the similarities between the Mormon trek and the exodus of ancient Israel from Egypt. The courage and suffering of the Mormon pioneers touched something deep within me.
I had never heard of the Mormons before, and I became interested in learning about them. But I soon became distracted by my busy life as a student and forgot the soft stirrings within me. Besides, I was only intellectually curious, or so I told myself. Little did I know then how the turning of those pioneer wagon wheels would change my life.
My mother worked in a fashion boutique in Paris and liked the Americans she met there. She grew to love the English language and encouraged me to study English even as a young child. During the summers, she sent me to England or Scotland to stay with English-speaking families. One year she encouraged me to get involved in an American summer camp exchange program. Through this program I became a camp counselor in Sharon, Vermont—the birthplace of Joseph Smith. Perhaps the Lord, even then, was trying to turn the wheels once more. Unfortunately, I heard nothing of Joseph Smith or the Mormons while I was there.
Several years later, however, the wheels turned again, with great power. I was studying English, with a specific focus on American culture, at Paris’s Sorbonne University. As I began thinking about a master’s thesis topic, I remembered the documentary about the Mormon pioneers. I asked my adviser if I could do something on them. No one at the Sorbonne had written a thesis about the Mormons, and so my adviser thought the subject might prove interesting. But he insisted that I pick an aspect of Mormonism that was unique.
After doing some preliminary research, I discovered that there was not enough information about the Mormons in the university library. I concluded I would have to talk to them. By then I had learned that the official name of the Mormon Church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. With that information, I located the headquarters of the Paris Mission and boldly knocked on the front door. I asked the missionary who answered, “Is there someone here who can tell me about the Mormons?”
The surprised young man managed to stutter, “Yes, yes, come in!”
As my research at the mission home progressed, I learned that Latter-day Saints believe in ordinances performed for dead ancestors. The more I read about temple work for the dead, the more I wanted to use that topic. The title I finally chose for my thesis was enough to make even long-time members of the Church pause: “Genealogy and the Mormon Church.” That’s how I became known in the Paris Mission as the “Genealogy Girl.”
It was at this point, just two months after my first visit to the mission home, that I met my future husband. He was a freelance American photographer and writer traveling in France. The missionaries told him about me, and he decided to interview me for a possible article for the Church magazines. After talking with me about the Church, he asked if I had ever considered joining. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I’m really just curious.”
But as an afterthought, I reflected, “There is something unusual about your church. I always feel a sense of peace when I come to the mission home. Actually, I welcome reasons to come back.” Still, I insisted that my interest was only academic curiosity.
A few months later I decided to continue my thesis research by visiting the famous genealogical facilities in Salt Lake City. I arrived in Utah the day before President Joseph Fielding Smith’s funeral, and I went to the public viewing with an LDS girl I had corresponded with while I was in France. I was impressed by the lack of despair at the services.
During this time, the photographer I met in Paris returned to Salt Lake City, and we became reacquainted. I asked him to help proofread my thesis, and as time went on, he noticed my comments in the thesis becoming more and more positive—starting with “the Mormons believe …” and later expressing, without my realizing it, “We believe …”
One evening, he asked if I would like to take the missionary lessons. I hesitated and gave my former response, “I’m only curious.” But there was less certainty in my voice, so he suggested, “What have you got to lose?”
I smiled and said, “Well, nothing, I guess. OK.” Three weeks later, I was baptized, and the wagon wheels turned again as I became a pioneer myself—the only member of the Church in my family. Soon I would be privileged to give many of my ancestors the opportunity to choose to become members of the Church of Jesus Christ.
A year and a half after my baptism, the photographer and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple. Little did he know when he met me how the wagon wheels shown in a French documentary would affect his life.
Now it is 1997, the 150th anniversary of the pioneers entering the Salt Lake Valley, and as I tell my story I truly do feel the jar of the wagon wheels as they crunch the rocks and churn the dust in a deeply rutted trail. It is a day like many others, and I am pulling a handcart as part of the 1997 Sesquicentennial Mormon Trail Wagon Train on the old historic pioneer route near Big Sandy Crossing, Wyoming. During this reenactment, I am playing the part of an actual pioneer girl from France who joined the Church in Italy and came to Zion in the 1850s. It seems incredible that I am walking the same trail, breathing the same dust, and hearing the same sounds as she and so many other pioneers did so long ago.
As I walk, I remember the documentary I saw when I was a young girl in France, and I can feel the presence of the many Latter-day Saints who lived and died along this trail. However, the part I am playing is not just a story from our pioneer past, it is also my story—for I am a pioneer, too.

Together and with the help of the Spirit we chose our secretary. She was a dependable, friendly mother of five who had always been dedicated to the Church. We knew we could depend on her to be there every week.
Our first challenge was to get to know each child and teacher personally. In particular we noticed one ten-year-old boy who was the only one in his class. His name was Troy. His attendance had begun to drop off as he was assigned one teacher after another, and he continued to miss Primary often. Several times we heard his teachers say, “Why prepare a lesson just for one child, when he usually doesn’t even show up? I’m wasting my time.”
There were suggestions that we move Troy forward or move him back a class so that he could be with a larger group. We tried both. Before long, Troy wasn’t coming to Primary at all. We sensed a real loss, and as a Primary presidency we decided to fast and pray about how to help Troy.
Once again I was amazed to see this principle at work. When we met, we all seemed to have our thoughts turned to our secretary, though we wondered how we could ever replace her.
When I talked to her, I found that she had just completed the Teacher Development Basic Course. We gave her name to the bishop and told him we felt certain Jackie was the one the Lord wanted to help Troy. She accepted the position, knowing it was a class with only one boy who often didn’t come; and she, too, had heard other teachers talk about how hard he was to handle and how discouraging it was to teach just one child. Nevertheless, Jackie tackled this teaching job with a very positive attitude and a feeling of love towards a boy who would very likely give her every reason not to love him.
I made it a point to tell Troy that he had a great new teacher. Unconvinced, he missed Primary that week, and the next.
But as the weeks slipped by, Troy occasionally came to Primary as if checking to see if his teacher really was there to teach just him. Jackie always was. And many times she went to Troy’s home to get him to come.
Jackie prayed often to know how she might be able to reach him. One night as she was thinking about Troy just before going to sleep, the thought came so strongly to her: “Be his friend.”
We gradually watched this ten-year-old boy being loved right back into Primary. There seemed to be a special relationship between Troy and Jackie, his friend. She taught him in the good, usual ways and used the Scouting program for the many fun and interesting activities she created for Troy. Those invaluable teaching moments were used so well by a dedicated teacher who truly knew the value of one child. It wasn’t long before we had perfect attendance from Troy.
Jackie remained Troy’s teacher, advancing with him until he graduated from Primary. Everyone was very proud of him. There were few who knew that if it hadn’t been for the efforts of one special teacher, it just wouldn’t have happened.
Not long after his graduation, Troy developed a serious infection around his heart and, critically ill, was taken to the Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, Utah. It was many weeks before he began to slowly improve. Troy’s mother remembers how amazed everyone was as he taught both nurses and the other patients around him about the gospel. He was not afraid to inquire about their religious faith, and his parents noticed that he was teaching the same basic principles he had learned from his Primary teacher and in his home.
Troy did not recover, and we were greatly sorrowed when we heard he died. He was only thirteen years old. The ward and community were stricken with this news. Most devastated were his family, who had to let go of many hopes and dreams for Troy.
As the plans for his funeral were made, Troy’s parents chose someone to give his life sketch who had been especially close to him—his former Primary teacher. As she spoke that day, everyone could feel her love for Troy, and we understood why he had responded to her.
The years have come and gone, but I have never forgotten this experience. I know that the worth of one soul is great in the sight of our Heavenly Father. That is a testimony I will always have because of Troy and Jackie.

Transportation was either difficult to obtain or nonexistent. Brother Krause reported that it was common to walk twelve or thirteen hours, for distances of up to fifty kilometers, to visit various branches of the Church. But many members, like Sister Elli Polzin, still had to be found and cared for.
“I came from Stettin [now in Poland] with our children and my mother in 1946. … One day two missionaries, one of them was Brother Walter Bohme from Groitzsch, came by to help us make contact with the Church once again. They encouraged us to move into Schwerin where there was a branch of the Church. I got a job there … and after much difficulty I was able to bring my family to Schwerin. … For years we lived in one room until we got an apartment. And then in December of 1949, one day before Christmas Eve, my husband came home from prison” (Schutze, page 18).

Last April, two days after general conference, we held our first meeting as a newly sustained presidency. We hiked to the top of Ensign Peak, and as we looked on the valley below, we saw the temple with the angel Moroni shining in the sun. For each of us, it was clear. The vision for our presidency was the temple. And our responsibility was also clear. We must “help prepare each young woman to be worthy to make and keep sacred covenants and receive the ordinances of the temple.”
The temple is the reason for everything we do in the Church. The temple was the reason our pioneer ancestors left their established homes and came west. It was the reason they suffered privation and even death. Temple covenants were the reason that, although babies were buried along the way, those pioneers could sing:
Come, come, ye Saints,
No toil nor labor fear;
But with joy wend your way.
Some lost everything but came into the valley with everything, really—temple ordinances, sacred covenants, and the promise of eternal life together as families.
Just two days after the Saints arrived in the Salt Lake Valley, Brigham Young and his associates hiked Ensign Peak. Atop that peak they unfurled a banner—a yellow bandana tied to a walking stick, which symbolized an ensign or standard to the nations. The Saints were to be the light, the standard. Last April, atop Ensign Peak, we three women also unfurled a banner which we made from a walking stick and a gold Peruvian shawl. It was our ensign, our standard to the nations—our banner calling for a return to virtue.
Virtue is a prerequisite to entering the Lord’s holy temples and to receiving the Spirit’s guidance. Virtue “is a pattern of thought and behavior based on high moral standards.” It encompasses chastity and moral purity. Virtue begins in the heart and in the mind. It is nurtured in the home. It is the accumulation of thousands of small decisions and actions. Virtue is a word we don’t hear often in today’s society, but the Latin root word virtus means strength. Virtuous women and men possess a quiet dignity and inner strength. They are confident because they are worthy to receive and be guided by the Holy Ghost. President Monson has counseled: “You be the one to make a stand for right, even if you stand alone. Have the moral courage to be a light for others to follow. There is no friendship more valuable than your own clear conscience, your own moral cleanliness—and what a glorious feeling it is to know that you stand in your appointed place clean and with the confidence that you are worthy to do so.”
Could it be that we have been slowly desensitized into thinking that high moral standards are old-fashioned and not relevant or important in today’s society? As Elder Hales has just reminded us, Lehonti in the Book of Mormon was well positioned on the top of a mountain. He and those he led were “fixed in their minds with a determined resolution” that they would not come down from the mount. It only took the deceitful Amalickiah four tries, each one more bold than the previous, to get Lehonti to “come down off from the mount.” And then having embraced Amalickiah’s false promises, Lehonti was “poison[ed] by degrees” until he died—not just poisoned, but “by degrees.” Could it be that this may be happening today? Could it be that first we tolerate, then accept, and eventually embrace the vice that surrounds us? Could it be that we have been deceived by false role models and persuasive media messages that cause us to forget our divine identity? Are we too being poisoned by degrees? What could be more deceptive than to entice the youth of this noble generation to do nothing or to be busy ever-texting but never coming to a knowledge of the truths contained in a book that was written for you and your day by prophets of God—the Book of Mormon? What could be more deceptive than to entice women, young and old, you and me, to be so involved in ourselves, our looks, our clothes, our body shape and size that we lose sight of our divine identity and our ability to change the world through our virtuous influence? What could be more deceptive than to entice men—young and old, holding the holy priesthood of God—to view seductive pornography and thus focus on flesh instead of faith, to be consumers of vice rather than guardians of virtue? The Book of Mormon relates the story of 2,000 young heroes whose virtue and purity gave them the strength to defend their parents’ covenants and their family’s faith. Their virtue and commitment to be “true at all times” changed the world!
I truly believe that one virtuous young woman or young man, led by the Spirit, can change the world, but in order to do so, we must return to virtue. We must engage in strict training. As the marathon runner Juma Ikangaa said after winning the New York Marathon, “The will to win is nothing without the will to prepare.” Now is the time to prepare by exercising more self-discipline. Now is the time to become “more fit for the kingdom.” Now is the time to set our course and focus on the finish. A return to virtue must begin individually in our hearts and in our homes.
What can each of us do to begin our return to virtue? The course and the training program will be unique to each of us. I have derived my personal training program from instructions found in the scriptures: “Let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly.” “Cleave unto [your] covenants.” “Stand … in holy places.” “Lay aside the things of [the] world.” “Believe that ye must repent.” “Always remember him and keep his commandments.” And “if there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, … seek after these things.” Now more than ever before, it is time to respond to Moroni’s call to “awake, and arise” and to “lay hold upon every good gift, and touch not the evil gift, nor the unclean thing.”
Recently I attended the blessing of our newest granddaughter. It was a holy sight to me as my husband and our sons, along with many other loved ones, encircled this little infant. She was so elegant all dressed in white—and it didn’t hurt a bit that she was named after her two grandmothers! But the thing that touched me most was the blessing given by her father, our son Zach. He blessed little Annabel Elaine that she would understand her identity as a daughter of God, that she would follow the examples of her mother, grandmothers, and sister, and that she would find great joy as she lived a virtuous life and prepared to make and keep sacred temple covenants. In that sacred moment I prayed that every young woman might be encircled, strengthened, and protected by righteous priesthood power, not only at the time of birth and blessing but throughout life.
During the solemn assembly last conference when President Uchtdorf called for the sustaining of our new prophet and First Presidency, I watched the entire congregation of priesthood brethren arise and stand. I felt your strength and your priesthood power. You are the guardians of virtue. Then I was overcome with emotion when President Uchtdorf said, “Will the young women please arise?” From my seat, I saw all of you arise and stand together. Today there could be no more powerful force for virtue in the world. You must never underestimate the power of your righteous influence.
I testify that a return to virtue is possible because of the Savior’s example and the “infinite virtue of His great atoning sacrifice.” I testify that we will be enabled and strengthened not only to do hard things but to do all things. Now is the time for each of us to arise and unfurl a banner to the world calling for a return to virtue. May we so live that we can be instruments in preparing the earth for His Second Coming, “that when he shall appear we shall be like him, … purified even as he is pure.” In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

President Harold B. Lee told of a great educator, Horace Mann, who “was the speaker at the dedication of a … boys’ school. … In his talk he said, ‘This school has cost hundreds of thousands of dollars; but if this school is able to save one boy, it is worth all that it cost.’ One of his friends came up to [Mr. Mann] at the close of the meeting and said, ‘You let your enthusiasm get away with you, didn’t you? You … said that if this school, costing hundreds of thousands of dollars, were to save just one boy, it was worth all that it cost? You surely don’t mean that.’
“Horace Mann looked at him and said, ‘Yes, my friend. It would be worth it if that one boy were my son; it would be worth it’” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1971, 64–65; or Ensign, June 1971, 61).

I love him for other things, for other places walking in his footsteps has taken me. I love him for a phone call from Idaho. A young couple had just had twins prematurely. One of them was doing fairly well, but the other was brought into the University of Utah Medical Center, weighing just a little over a pound and a quarter. Think of five cubes of butter, if you would, and you’re talking about the size of this little soul. I received a call from Idaho: “He has been administered to, but would you mind going to the hospital and giving him a blessing?” I found that about the only hour available that particular day was at 5:00 A.M. I went up to the medical center, went into the room, and found the oxygen canopy. I put my fingers—all that would fit—on the forehead of this little soul, gave a blessing, and had the impression from God that one day this boy—182 cm. tall, ninety-one kilograms—would be a young ambassador for the Lord.

There are other experiences. Once as I was leaving a conference, a sweet family stopped me. They knew a nonmember man who was having severe problems, and they wondered if we would give him a blessing. We went to his apartment. In the living room were two pieces of furniture, a bean bag chair and a stereo set—and nothing else. A little girl, nine years old was taking care of her father because the mother, when she heard her husband had cancer, had abandoned him and the girl and her younger brother. The girl took us down the hallway into his room, and there on the bottom of two bunk beds we saw this man, 182 cm. tall, thirty point four kg. We administered to him, feeling he would not live. But we felt impressed to bless him with the thing that would be of most worth to him: that his son and daughter would be protected, that angels would walk through this life with them, that they would be protected when he wasn’t there to do it any longer. You can’t buy those kinds of experiences with all the money in the world.

Seeking to walk in the Lord’s footsteps recently brought me in contact with a young man and his father. The young man and a friend were up hiking in the lower foothills near Cody, Wyoming. The friend jumped across a high-power line that was down, but the young man got tangled in it and was electrocuted. The friend turned and ran all the way back down to where the father lived—and it wasn’t a short distance—and told the father that his son had been electrocuted and that he was dead. The father, who was not a young man, ran all the way back up, taking about fifteen minutes. When he got up to where the boy was lying across the wires, he somehow removed the boy from the wires with a board or a large branch. Then he picked his son up in his arms and held him, saying, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power and authority of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I command you to live.” The dead boy opened up his eyes in his father’s arms and was taken to the University of Utah Medical Center, where he recovered.

Let me tell you of just two cheerful givers in my experience. First, whenever I think of the widow’s mite, it brings to mind an experience in a small branch meeting in a row house on a street in a large eastern city in which branch my wife and I served for 18 months. It was located in a very distressed intercity neighborhood that had been burned over during the riots accompanying the Martin Luther King assassination in 1968. Much of it had not been rebuilt. The people in the branch paid their tithing in part with coins and in doing so paid an honest tithe. At one of our meetings, a woman handed me an envelope with the tithing slip and the relevant bills and coins and then after doing that said to me, “If you belong to a church, you ought to contribute. I can’t contribute much, but I can contribute the sacrament bread,” and handed me a baggie with two little pieces of bread in it. As we used her bread for the sacrament, the whole experience carried an additional meaning that day. Going through my mind continually was the verse dealing with the widow’s mite and that she, out of her poverty, had given more than they all.

An experience I had in Guatemala observing some welfare missionaries had a great impact on me. When the welfare sisters walked onto the church grounds, the atmosphere became electric. Men, women, and children alike ran to them and embraced them. I was told the sisters had helped them through a recent epidemic. They had helped deliver some babies and were present when some members of the families had died. They had brought food for both the soul and the body.

I once saw, at close range, the face of a faithful father who had just learned that his handsome and promising young son had violated the law of chastity and that the boy’s immature young girlfriend was pregnant. I’ll never forget the look in that man’s eyes as it dawned on him that his child of promise had willfully rejected what his parents had taught and what they wanted him to be. The father just sat in stunned silence, staring sadly at the rain outside his window in a grief that knew no comfort. As the tears ran freely down his face, he asked himself out loud: “Why? Why would he turn his back on all he knows to be right?” There came no answer but the gentle sound of the falling rain.

In 1966, I joined the Church at the age of 14 while living as a resident of Siksika Nation, an Indian reservation in Alberta, Canada. In the fall of that year, three of my siblings and I went on a placement program sponsored by the Church to assist young First Nations members of the Church to become rooted in the gospel. I was placed in the home of John and Marguerite Webb in Vermilion, Alberta. They were wonderful. They treated me like one of their own. I lived with them for five years, and they taught me the gospel of Jesus Christ and instilled in me a love for it.

It’s the middle of the night. My eyes snap open as my restless sleep is cut short. “Oh no,” I pray. “Not again.”

But the tremors begin almost immediately. In a terrifying burst of trembling that’s as baffling and foreign as it is debilitating, my entire body begins to jerk up and down as if in a seizure. My hands and feet burn with heat from an unseen source. My wife jerks awake and holds me tightly, reassuring me with her quiet presence.

Happiness, what I had once considered my default state of being, is nowhere in sight.

If I had one question that dark night—other than to wonder what was going on physically (which I later learned)—it would have been to ask why I was feeling so unhappy when I was striving to live the gospel of Jesus Christ.

When it comes to medical conditions like depression and anxiety, happiness becomes a more complex creature. The late-night tremors I mentioned earlier turned out to be symptoms of anxiety brought on by clinical depression.

In my life, when I’ve been in the full throes of darkness and uncertainty that is clinical depression, I could no more “choose to feel happy” than choose my height or eye color.

What I can always choose, however, is to fight back against the darkness. I can reach up to God. I can use all the tools at my disposal, from faith and prayer to modern medicine.

For me, emerging successfully from depressive episodes over the years always involves a multifaceted approach. I must look to my physical health (exercise, nutrition, sleep), my medical health (medication, vitamins, consultations with doctors), my emotional health (counseling, connecting with others), and my spiritual health (prayer, scripture study, serving in the Church, time in the temple) in balanced measures.

Despite some of the painful lows I’ve experienced over the years from depression, I am blessed to experience happiness and positivity most of the time! I feel deeply for those of you more strongly and more persistently affected by mental illness than I, but even for you, I fully believe that the Prince of Peace will heal all your sorrows (see John 14:27).

Depression tells many lies when it comes to happiness. It asserts that things won’t ever improve. One potent antidote to this particular lie—for me, at least—is found in my favorite hymn, “Be Still, My Soul.”

Be still, my soul: Thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as he has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.22

Beautiful truths, aren’t they? As I look back over my life, I have no doubt that God has blessed, strengthened, and guided me all along the way. Thus, I know He will be there for me in the future, just as I know God will guide you along your path to happier days.

It all started with headaches. After a while, the headaches intensified and were happening daily. Sometimes they caused me to vomit. Because of this, my doctor requested an MRI.
The results of the MRI showed that I had a tumor called a germinoma in the central nervous system of my brain. When we first found out about the tumor in October 2023, we didn’t know if it was malignant (cancerous) or benign.
I underwent various surgeries, and they even completely removed the tumor. I returned home and everything seemed to be going well, but the biopsy took a long time to come back. A few weeks later, my headaches returned, so I got a CT scan.
When we received the CT scan results, we learned that in less than 20 days, the tumor in my brain had completely returned. The biopsy showed that the tumor was cancerous. My parents were very scared, but I remained calm. I believe that the Savior was already preparing and strengthening me.
After finding out the tumor was cancerous, my parents and I left our city and went to the specialized children’s cancer hospital in the state capital, Curitiba. The first part of my treatment took six months, between surgeries and chemotherapy.
I had another MRI in order to schedule the next surgery. The doctors expected that with the chemotherapy, the tumor should have shrunk to the size of a bean.
But the MRI showed that the tumor was totally gone! The Lord performed a miracle. The doctors hadn’t even considered this a possibility. I was so grateful for the miracles I experienced, but my journey continued to be hard.
At the beginning of this trial, I was sad because I was losing so many things. I had to stop going to school and church. I lost soccer, and I also lost contact with friends. I couldn’t attend seminary either.
I know that the Savior, through His Atonement, will make up for my losses. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I believe Jesus Christ will compensate for all these things I’ve lost.
I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I believe Jesus Christ will compensate for all these things I’ve lost.
No one understands me as well as He does. My mother understands me very well, but not 100 percent, like the Savior understands me. So even though I was sad about everything I lost and everything that happened, the Savior was with me the whole time.
One way to overcome difficulties is by serving the Lord. Service has connected me with the Lord and helped me listen to His voice and follow Him.
This past year, we had an FSY conference, and although I couldn’t attend in person, the couple directing the session invited me to make a video sharing my testimony.
In my video I shared about how no matter what is happening in my life, I have the desire to do my part and serve others. I received 571 letters from youth who saw my video and were encouraged.
Gustavo’s family is a source of strength to him. He looks up to his older brother and sister, who are both returned missionaries.
I’m still facing my health challenge, but this experience has brought me much closer to the Savior and has taught me many things.
I’ve learned to have patience and to wait upon the Lord when dealing with bad news, bad experiences, or bad illnesses. I’ve learned to find joy in the small and simple things. I’ve learned to see the world with different eyes, to study the scriptures, and to commune with the Holy Spirit.
Something that helps me spiritually is always being in the scriptures. Even when I was hospitalized, after surgery or during chemotherapy, I stayed in touch with the scriptures or general conference talks. If I couldn’t read, I asked my mom to read to me, or I’d play the audio for myself.
Now I’m in the phase of radiotherapy, and while waiting for treatments, I use the FamilySearch Get Involved app. During radiation therapy, I like to think about scriptures from seminary. When we choose to put the Lord first, even in difficult times, it makes all the difference. I feel that the Lord is with me because I’ve drawn near to Him.
Jesus Christ is my Savior and my Friend. I know He knows everything I feel, have felt, and will feel. Everything will be made right through the Savior.

When Brother Newry returned to the Bahamas, he found a very small branch that had been formed while he was gone. The little branch met in homes and rented buildings until they built their own chapel. He remained faithful through the years and eventually received his endowment in the temple. Along the way his friend, Antoinette Russell, asked to attend church with him. She was impressed by the members’ warmth, and without telling Clarence, she began meeting with the missionaries. She says: “I knew we were each someone special. When the missionaries told me where we had come from, I knew it was true. I felt peace.”
Antoinette and Clarence Newry were married in March 1997 in the Orlando Florida Temple. Several other Bahamian couples have had their marriages sealed in the temple, but the Newrys were the first to be married in the temple.

My mind has been much on this topic because of an experience our family has had in the last few months. Our daughter and her husband took a while to find each other and then, though they wanted children with all their hearts, over a number of years had difficulty realizing that dream. They prayed and they sought priesthood blessings and medical help, and eventually were thrilled to learn they were expecting twins.
Things did not go smoothly, however, and three and a half months before the babies were due to arrive, the mother-to-be found herself in the labor and delivery section of the hospital. The doctors at first were hopeful that they could stop the labor for a few more weeks. Quickly, however, the question became, would they even have the 48 hours necessary for medication to prepare the babies’ immature lungs to function?
A nurse came in from the newborn intensive care unit to show the couple pictures of the machines the babies would be hooked up to if they were born alive. She explained the risks for eye damage, for lung collapse, for physical impairment, for brain damage. The couple listened, humbled yet hopeful, and then, despite all the doctors could do, it was obvious that these babies were coming.
They were born alive. First the baby girl and then the baby boy—weighing less than four pounds together—were rushed to the intensive care unit and put on ventilators, with umbilical tubes and intravenous lines and constant attention. They can’t have too much light, they can’t have too much noise, their chemical balances need constant monitoring, as the hospital, with millions of dollars of equipment and many wonderful doctors and nurses, attempted to replicate the miracle of a mother’s womb.
There are multitudes of little miracles every day: a collapsed lung heals and then, despite the odds, continues to function properly; pneumonia is beaten back; more deadly infections invade and are overcome; IV lines go bad and are replaced. After two and a half months, the baby boy has gained two pounds and can breathe with an oxygen supplement. His ventilator is gone, he learns to eat, and his grateful parents take him home with monitors attached.
The baby girl keeps pulling her ventilator tube out, setting off alarms across the nursery. Maybe she wants to keep up with her brother, we think, but her throat closes off each time, and she just can’t breathe on her own. Her throat is so inflamed that at times the respiratory therapists have great difficulty reinserting the tube, and she almost dies. Her normal progress is stymied by her continued dependence on the ventilator.
Finally, after her baby brother has been home for two months, the doctors feel they are forced to suggest surgery for her—a surgery that will allow her to breathe by opening a hole in her throat, a surgery that might solve the stomach problems by opening a hole in her side, but a surgery that will impact her little body for many more months and maybe for the rest of her life. As the parents wrestled with this decision, a beloved aunt sent a message to all the family. She explained the situation—the critical issue of timing, the importance of getting off the ventilator—and suggested that we join our faith once again, and in prayer and fasting ask for one more miracle—if it was the Lord’s will. We would culminate our fast with a prayer the evening of December 3.
Let me read from a letter that was sent to the family the morning of December 4. “Dearest Family, Wonderful news! Blessings from the Lord. Our heartfelt thanks for your prayers and fasting in behalf of our little girl. Yesterday morning she came off the ventilator and has been off for 24 hours at this writing. To us, it is a miracle. The medical staff are still guarded about predicting the future, but we are so grateful to the Lord and to you. We are praying that this will mark the beginning of the end of her hospital stay. And we even dare to hope that she’ll be home for Christmas.”
She did make it home for Christmas, and both babies are currently doing “just fine.” Our family has had its own “parting of the Red Sea,” and we are prepared to testify that there is today, as there was yesterday and will be forever, a “God of miracles” who loves His children and desires to bless them.

Youth in the Danville California Stake spent an entire summer getting to know more about the Restoration of the gospel when they performed Brother Joseph, a play about the life of Joseph Smith.
A few weeks prior to the performance, the youth took a three-part challenge to only say kind and positive things to others, to pray at least morning and night, and to keep the commandments and read their scriptures. This extra effort, in addition to their hours of rehearsals, made this a play to remember for both the audience and the cast.

Angela stormed into the house, slamming her books onto the kitchen table. Her fifth-grade math book fell to the floor at her mother’s feet. Seven-year-old Caleb, who had run home from the bus stop, sat in shocked silence.
“I’m never going back to school again!” Angela yelled. Her anger turned into tears as she dropped into a chair. Between sobs, Angela wailed, “Sheela is making life miserable for me. I tried to be nice to her when she called me names. I ignored her when she teased me about my clothes. Then today she told everyone that I told her secrets about Ammon Young. Now Ammon’s afraid to talk to me.”
Mom sat down and put her arm around her daughter. Angela raised her tear-streamed face. “Mom, Ammon’s my best friend. He’s the only other Church member in my grade. We always help each other choose the right.” She laid her head against Mom’s shoulder and cried for a long while.
Caleb, uncomfortable with the silence, said, “My Primary teacher said that Jesus taught us to pray for our enemies. Maybe you should pray that Sheela gets really sick and misses lots of school.”
“I don’t think that is what Jesus meant,” Mom gently corrected.
“Then, maybe you could pray that Sheela moves to another country,” Caleb suggested.
Mom shook her head. “No, Caleb—but you’re right that we should pray for our enemies. In fact, this Sunday is fast Sunday. Let’s use this opportunity to fast for Sheela. When we combine faith, prayers, and fasting, miracles can happen.”
Angela, who had calmed down a bit, sniffled and added, “Like the time we all fasted and prayed for cousin David when he was born two months too soon?”
“That’s right, Angela,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father blessed us for our faith. He always does.”
Angela prayed many times throughout the weekend that Sheela would stop being mean to her. As she fasted, she hardly noticed when her stomach growled.
Before leaving for school on Monday morning, Angela knelt by her bed once again. “Heavenly Father, please help Sheela to stop being mean. I’ve fasted and prayed. I have faith that Thou canst change her. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”
Angela bounced happily down the stairs. “Good-bye, Mom.”
“Have a great day,” Mom said, kissing her and Caleb good-bye.
“Oh, I will—I just know it!”
She was sure she would when she arrived at her class and found that her teacher had rearranged the desks. Angela was no longer sitting next to Sheela. She was on the opposite side of the room. Angela silently offered a prayer of thanks. Ammon even smiled at her as he walked past her desk. This really is going to be a great day! she thought.
After lunch, she stopped by the rest room to make sure that no food was stuck in her braces. Her heart raced when Sheela walked out of one of the stalls. Summoning her courage, Angela smiled and said, “Hi, Sheela—do you have fun plans for the weekend?”
Sheela just smiled—not exactly a friendly smile, but a smile. The two girls left the bathroom at the same time.
“Hello, Sheela. Hello, Angela,” Mrs. Keiter, the music teacher, said as she passed by.
“Hello,” the girls answered. Angela was glad Sheela had not said or done anything mean in the bathroom. She was happy, too, when Sheela went to the office instead of out to the playground. Again, Angela offered a quiet prayer of gratitude to Heavenly Father for His help.
A few minutes before school was over for the day, the secretary spoke over the intercom. “Mrs. Winn, will you please send Angela Valencia to the office. The principal would like to see her.”
Angela stood and walked across the room, wondering what the principal wanted. As she passed Sheela’s desk, Sheela smirked and cooed, “Good luck.” It made Angela feel cold all over.
The principal, Mr. Cooper, was waiting for Angela when she arrived. He shut the door behind her. “Angela, I’ve received a report that you have been defacing school property. Someone scratched ‘Angela Valencia loves Ammon Young’ on one of the stalls in the girls rest room. The student who reported this said that Mrs. Keiter saw you leaving there during lunch recess. I’ve checked with her, and she said that you were there at that time.”
Angela was stunned. How could this be? Hadn’t she fasted and prayed and used all her faith that Heavenly Father would make Sheela be nice? Sheela had been in the rest room at the same time. She must have scratched the names on the stall.
“Mr. Cooper,” Angela said softly, “I did go into the rest room after lunch, but I didn’t scratch anything on the stalls.”
“I’m sorry, Angela, but I have your word against another student’s and a teacher’s. You will help the janitor, Mr. Hamblin, during recess for a week. Maybe that will help you respect school property more.”
Caleb knew by the look on Angela’s face when she got on the bus that things had not gone well. He walked silently beside her on the way home from the bus stop. Entering the kitchen just ahead of her, he blurted, “Angela’s faith didn’t work.”
“Caleb! That’s not nice,” Mom scolded.
“No, Mom, Caleb’s right,” Angela sighed sadly. “I must not have enough faith for Heavenly Father to make Sheela be nice.” She told Mom about her day.
Taking Angela by the hand, Mom led her into the living room. “Angela, we can’t pray away another person’s agency, no matter how much faith we have.” Mom explained, “When we pray for our enemies, it changes how we feel about them and brings us peace. We change for the better, and sometimes our goodness helps our enemies to change. Sadly, some never change. But we should never let our enemies choose how we will act.”
“So what does Angela do about Sheela?” Caleb interrupted. “How does all this faith, prayer, and fasting help her if Sheela is still mean?”
Angela nodded, tears starting to spill over her eyelashes. “I thought faith could produce miracles.”
“It does. I promise you that it does,” Mom assured her. “Do you remember from family scripture study last week the story of Alma and his people in the land of Helam?” Mom reached for her scriptures sitting on the end table.
“A little,” Angela said. “Alma’s people were being good, but they still were captured by the Lamanites. Things got even worse when the Lamanites put Amulon, one of the wicked priests of King Noah, in charge over Alma’s people.”
“And Amulon was Alma’s enemy,” Caleb added. “He knew that Alma had believed the prophet Abinadi and had tried to save him from being burned.”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Amulon made slaves of Alma and his people and gave them hard work. He even put guards over them to kill anyone caught praying.”
“But they still prayed in their hearts, didn’t they?” Caleb asked.
“Yes, and the Lord answered their prayers,” Mom replied. “He didn’t help them escape right away, but He helped them with their trials. Let’s read what happened in Mosiah 24:15:
“‘And now it came to pass that the burdens which were laid upon Alma and his brethren were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord.’
“So, what do you think you should pray for now?” Mom asked gently.
Angela sat quietly, then, breathing deeply, she answered, “To endure my trials cheerfully.”
The next day, after sanding and painting over the writing in the bathroom, Angela was emptying trash cans from the classrooms when Sheela walked by. Loudly she said to the girls with her, “It looks like we have a new janitor at our school.” The group left, giggling.
“Please help me to be cheerful and patient,” Angela prayed in her heart.
Just then Mr. Hamblin walked up. “Angela, you’re a good worker. I appreciate your help.” Then he smiled a big smile. “You didn’t scratch those words on the bathroom stall, did you?”
Angela shook her head.
“That’s what I told Mr. Cooper. And while we were talking, Ammon Young came to report that he’d overheard Sheela Kelly bragging about doing it herself and getting you in trouble. Ammon even volunteered to take your punishment himself if the principal didn’t believe him.” Mr. Hamblin smiled again. “So, Mr. Cooper wants to see you again in his office. He’s a fair man, young lady, I think you’ll be happy to talk with him again.”
Patience and cheerfulness, prayers and faith, Angela thought. They really do produce miracles. I don’t think my troubles with Sheela are over, but I’ll keep trying to do what’s right. Maybe I’ll try to talk with her again. And as she hurried toward the principal’s office, she silently prayed, Thank Thee, Heavenly Father, for helping me with my trials.

I have a friend who as a young man couldn’t say no to a drink of alcohol. But to him, it was a special kind of poison. He became an alcoholic. It had disastrous consequences on his family, and he struggled for years to overcome his illness. Fortunately, he did so, and he has found the time to help others. However, he lost years with his young family that he can never regain. He also was separated from the Church. From all indications, it appears that his past drinking has robbed him of an eternal family.

A few years ago, when I was in the navy during World War II, I received orders to report to the fleet headquarters at Pearl Harbor. My family took me to Treasure Island in the San Francisco Bay, where I boarded the plane there, an old sea plane called a Pan-American clipper. On board that plane were some high-ranking medical officers going out to prepare and build up the hospital support because the battle of Tarawa would be taking place within a few weeks. Because of my rank, I was assigned to sleep in a sleeping bag out in the tail of that plane, where I could see the starboard engines as we were flying over San Francisco, which was under military blackout. It was black as we were flying out into the Pacific, and I thought the starboard engine on that old Pan-American plane was on fire. I couldn’t sleep as I watched it throughout the entire flight.

During that sleepless night I wondered about my own life and whether I had been living up to the opportunities that would be mine and the responsibility that would be mine as a holder of the Melchizedek Priesthood—the responsibility to be an example and to live the way I should so that I would be able to fulfill the calls that might come to me. In that sleepless night I took an inventory of myself, of my attitudes, wondering if I was doing all that I might. Even though I had always accepted my Church assignments, I wondered if I was fulfilling them with all of my heart, might, mind, and soul and living up to the responsibility, the blessing, that I received as a holder of the Melchizedek Priesthood and what would be expected of any of us who received this blessing.

Looking back on that sleepless night, I thank the Lord for His blessings today and for all that I have had the opportunity to be involved in. I try always to live the gospel to the fullest, to do everything I am called on to do with all of my heart, might, mind, and strength, to fulfill any call that might come to me so I may be qualified to do whatever I might be asked to do someday.