Gospel Story Finder

Jared has also noticed an adjustment in himself in the way he treats his family. He explains: “When you go to the temple, you see things more clearly. I have felt the Spirit guide me to treat my parents and siblings better, to maintain a good relationship with them. There have been times where I have felt upset and was convinced that the other person was wrong, but when I remember that we are an eternal family, I realize that it’s not worth it to argue over petty things.
“Besides,” he adds, with a wry smile, “if I am going to live with them forever, I had better get used to them.”

I awoke to the screech of the alarm clock, which seemed designed to double as an air raid siren in the event of a bombing. The man who had invented this clock must have been an electronic mastermind. He had somehow combined the gentle lowing of a disgruntled water buffalo with the cheerful melody of a less-than-well-oiled disc brake and five or ten of the world’s other most annoying sounds. My companion, whose hearing range automatically excludes the top 10,000 kilocycles before 7:00 A.M., had not stirred, so I staggered over to the still frantic clock. Then I realized that it was Christmas morning! All over the world, children would be awakening early and scurrying excitedly to the Christmas tree to find the gifts left by the traditional visitor. I silenced the clock and looked around. This was definitely not like the Christmas of childhood memory.
I was in a small apartment, nearly 7,000 miles from home in a land where words like thermostat and central heating described facilities available mostly to the well-to-do. I dove back into my bed (a mat on the floor) as the icy bite reminded me that my pajamas were not constructed for warmth. There is something unsettling about seeing your breath when you are indoors. It does not conjure up the same feeling that one receives while looking at a cheery Christmas postcard depicting rosy-cheeked children with clouded breath, gleefully frolicking around a newly built snowman. No, this was quite a different feeling.
I reached for the heater, trying to keep as much of the surface area of my skin from contacting the frigid air as possible. To my dismay, the heater would not light. Further inspection revealed the worst—no more gas! In our excitement and busy schedule during the holiday season, we had forgotten to have the tank refilled. Morning study would be held shivering under a blanket. My sometimes overactive imagination recalled a book I had once read on the Donner party, a group of early pioneers who had become trapped in the Sierra Nevada mountains during the winter, eventually freezing to death. What a wonderful Christmas this would be!
After a freezing morning study period, during which my toes and fingers threatened permanent inactivity, we sat down to a Christmas feast of mugi (a Japanese wheat cereal) and mizo (a soup made of bean curd). I tried to imagine myself eating roast turkey and drinking eggnog, but the consistency was simply not there. I tried to console myself with the thought that we were eating more healthy foods than Americans. No fat-ridden meats and calorie-strewn desserts for us! When I found that we were out of cinnamon and butter and would have to eat the mugi plain, however, all attempts at rationalization died. The Sugar Plum Fairy would be replaced by the Pickled Radish Ogre this year. What a wonderful Christmas this would be!
At 10:30 A.M. sharp, as families celebrating the day were just finishing the unwrapping of gifts, we bundled up and set out for church. Since the church was some distance, we rode our bicycles. The “Green Dragon” bicycle, as it is nicknamed by the missionaries, is built like an army tank, for durability rather than looks or speed. Like its military counterpart, it comes in a lovely shade of camouflage green. Although the army’s tank is said to weigh a few more pounds, the bicycle makes up for this by its ability to reach excessive speeds, sometimes 15 or 20 miles per hour. Both are able to withstand mortar fire for prolonged periods of time. Finally, it is fitted with a unique, slow-acting brake system that avoids sudden stops by bringing the vehicle to a standstill only after 50 yards of desperate braking, at the same time emitting a sound which is guaranteed to alert all other motorists within a two-mile radius. This would be as close as we would come to a one-horse open sleigh.
The meetinghouse is the top two stories of a small three-story building near the Kumamoto train station. We were having a special Christmas sacrament meeting. I was to be the program’s principal speaker. I have learned just enough Japanese to begin a very impressive sounding sentence while lacking the skills to finish it. Japanese is interesting in that you must think backwards to translate. If then you become stuck in midsentence and still think in English, being somewhat new to the language, you must look ahead in the sentence, think forward what you desire to say, and then translate backward and finally say it. (I won’t attempt to even broach the subject of pronunciation.)
I think my planned speech on “the meaning of Christmas” came out as a third-person account on the wise men’s camels. The members, however, were kind as always and smiled even at the more blatant grammatical errors, although I saw one or two of the sisters wince. I knew it had gone badly afterwards when one of the brothers told me that the talk was “good.” In Japan, everything is on an elevated level. If they don’t say it was “terribly good” or “amazingly skillful,” then it was really bad. “Terribly” or “amazingly good” mean just plain good. If in fact it really was excellent, then the complimentary phrases will be repeated 10 or 15 times. My talk, therefore, being only “good,” was not good at all. It’s all a little confusing.
After church, we returned to the apartment for lunch. Again the usual Christmas feast gave way to tuna fish sandwiches and soup. No figgy pudding.
Afternoon dendo (proselyting) was without success, unless you count success as making a large dog very happy by allowing him to take two missionaries by surprise and chase them unceremoniously out of his yard. Things turned from bad to worse when I was attacked by the flower cart. Really, it happened. I was riding along minding my own business when out of thin air an old woman pulling a flower cart appeared in my path. To this day I believe nothing outside of a formula racer could have appeared that quickly from nowhere. But from the looks of the cart, it had been a few years since the last Grand Prix. I tried to swerve and brake but clipped the side of it, sending me sprawling on the roadside, Swedish knit and all. The Japanese, due to their attention-shunning nature, try to ignore anything less than a major traffic fatality, so she kept right on going without a second look. I was tempted to cry “hit and run,” but she probably hadn’t done any running since before I was born. Besides, with my complete ignorance of the road rules here, I was probably somehow at fault. There wasn’t much to do but dust myself off, check for bodily damage (of which there was none), and thank the Lord that one of the few inexpensive things here in Japan was dry cleaning. With that I set off after my companion, who was losing a personal battle to not let the humor of the situation (from an observer’s standpoint) show on his face. At the time, I did not find it at all funny, however. What a great Christmas!
With afternoon dendo finished, we again returned to the apartment for dinner, the crowning event of Christmas Day. The curry and rice, however, did little to enhance the day.
We left the apartment to proceed directly to the evening’s only appointment, the Nagata family. I was grateful that the day was nearly over. It had become somewhat of a physical and mental marathon in which I had dropped out, mentally at least, at the 400-yard mark. The moment we emerged from the covering that roofs the apartment’s walkway, it began to rain, then snow. Real snow! Not enough to cover the ground, of course. Anyone living above the 38th parallel would scoff at it, yet there it was, the only bit we received all year. I had always thought that it would be more homelike to have a white Christmas, but at the moment I could only shake my head at the incredible timing that began the downpour as I left umbrella-less to face the elements. What a wonderful Christmas!
The Nagata’s invited us in with the customary Japanese formality, which we gratefully accepted partly due to an established sense of custom and partly because we would have accepted an offer to step into almost any shelter if it had been warm enough. The Nagatas were an elderly couple whose children had long since left home. They had allowed us to talk with them several weeks earlier and had shown interest during the subsequent introductory lesson, so we had made a December 25 appointment for lesson 1.
As we finished renewing introductions and cultural niceties and began to teach, it struck me that we were teaching about the birth and life of Christ on Christmas Day, a unique opportunity. I was glad that I knew the lesson well enough to be able to add some extra comments and feelings relating to the Christmas season. As the lesson progressed something special happened—not an event so much as a feeling, yet one so tangible that all within the room could feel it. I could see on the faces of the family the whisperings of comprehension as they heard for the first time the story of mankind’s greatest benefactor. We taught of the Atonement, the mighty struggle that took place within the Savior’s suffering body so our sins could be purged at the price of life’s blood; then the glorious renewal, the answer to Christ’s humble request, “Glorify thy Son, that thy Son may glorify thee” (John 17:1).
The Spirit was with us that night as we spoke. The Nagatas knew that we were not just two young men giving an historical account but two messengers testifying of their Master. We then instructed them in the simple steps of prayer. After offering a prayer of his own, my companion invited Mr. Nagata to do the same. As that humble little man, for the first time in his 60 years on earth, began to call upon his Eternal Father, I felt a happiness and a sense of purpose that transcended all other feelings. Gone was the cold, the loneliness of Christmas away from home. Banished were the thoughts of rebelliousness and complaint. The single purpose of a mission from God became very clear as a tangible blessing was manifested. Mr. Nagata had told us of the joy he had felt when some of his children had called from America, for Christmas. I could imagine that the Lord felt that sort of joy after a beloved child called from even greater time and distance.
As we rode home that night, the cold didn’t seem to bite quite so hard. Maybe I was too busy marveling at the many blessings the Lord had given me. The chance to live in an age when I could travel thousands of miles in a single day to share what I had been given. The love of family and friends. The joy of knowing my purpose and reason for living. The apartment beckoned as we rounded the final corner knowing that some hot chocolate and a blanket were moments away. A starlit Christmas night, now devoid of clouds, testified of an Eternal Creator with endless dominions who had sent his Son on a night like this. What a wonderful Christmas it had been!

After World War II, my mother and father settled for a time in South Africa. My father was a seaman and the shipping company he worked for was based in South Africa and sailed the world. My parents had two very young children at the time and while my father was a world away from home on one trip, their younger child, Gillian, fell ill. She was less than a year old and sadly passed away during emergency surgery.
My mother was devastated. She was not only without the support of her husband, but also, because they were still not well established in South Africa, she had no extended family or even close friends to turn to. Fortunately, around the same time, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had recently knocked on her door and had been teaching her the gospel of Jesus Christ. I am so grateful for those missionaries.
They taught my mother that “little children are alive in Christ, even from the foundation of the world” (Moroni 8:12).
Something we never knew until we read about it in her diary decades later, is that in the days after the loss of her child, the mission president sent his car with a driver to take my mother to all the places she needed to go and to attend to all the matters that arose, including arrangements for a funeral. I am so grateful for that mission president.
His act of kindness to someone whom the missionaries were merely teaching has had long lasting effects unknown to him.

One time a young missionary who had recently arrived at Bogotá to serve in our mission said to me in an initial interview: “Well, President, I guess you’ve heard all about me and about all the trouble I was before receiving my mission call and all the problems I had at the MTC.”
I said to him: “No, Elder, I haven’t heard a thing and, frankly, unless it concerns a serious moral transgression, I don’t want to know. The only thing that matters to me, and I believe that the only thing that matters to the Lord, is what you do from now on. I know that you have been called by God to serve in this mission and that you can be a powerful and effective advocate for the Savior. You have a real opportunity right here and right now to go out and show the Lord and others who you really are and what you can do.” I think the missionary was a little surprised at my response, and it effectively terminated our interview.
That young man worked with enthusiasm and energy in some of the areas of our mission that might be considered tough. He taught, he converted, he baptized. He became a district leader and a zone leader. He left our mission with my greatest respect for the work he had done and for the man he had become.

Thirty years ago I had responsibility for much of the work in the South Pacific. A Brother J. Vernon Monson was called, together with his wife, to journey to faraway Rarotonga in the Cook Islands, there to serve as district president.
Later, in a letter to me, he reported: “We are most grateful for the progress being made, and I would especially like to mention the goodwill and wonderful relations that have developed with the representatives of government and the business community toward us and the Church.
“One thing climaxed the development of this public acceptance,” he wrote. “It was in having our nephew and niece, Dr. and Mrs. Odeen Manning, render an outstanding service here in the Cook Islands. Dr. Manning is an ophthalmologist, and I wrote to him outlining a proposal whereby he might render service to the people of Rarotonga. My proposal included the following: (1) no remuneration; (2) he must pay his own expenses; (3) that he turn his practice over to the other doctors to handle for the three months he would be away; (4) we would furnish them free board and room while in Rarotonga; and (5) that he bring his own surgical instruments, as none would be available in Rarotonga.”
Brother Vernon Monson’s letter to me continued: “The Mannings airmailed their reply in two words: ‘Offer accepted.’ As preparations began, the government of the Cook Islands assigned competent doctors to assist Dr. Manning and to learn from him. In all, 284 patients were examined, with most being fitted for glasses. Fifty-three patients had serious eye operations, such as cataract surgery.
“The entire three-month program was wonderful and most heartwarming. Truly we were blessed. It has buoyed up the Saints, who gained new pride in being members of a faith which would bring medical service to these islands.” The letter ended.
Years later, my wife and I were guests on a BYU-sponsored cruise to the Holy Land. One evening as we were seated on the ship’s deck, the man sitting next to us turned to me and said, “Elder Monson, my name is Odeen Manning from Woodland Hills, California. I am an ophthalmologist by profession and served a brief medical mission to Rarotonga when my uncle and aunt were serving there.”
I acknowledged that I was aware of his sacrifice and his service. I asked Dr. Manning, “As you reflect on this experience, would you wish to share with me your feelings concerning it?”
He responded with emotion, saying, “It was the most spiritually rewarding experience of my life.”
I believe it was more than coincidence that my wife and I would be on the cruise vessel at that particular time and in that particular area of the deck, sitting next to a man we never before had met. Heaven was close as Dr. Manning and I embraced, and thanks were expressed for his service—not only to those who were blind and now could see, but also to our Lord and Savior. As Jacob declared, “Great are the promises of the Lord unto them who are upon the isles of the sea.”

“Mom! Watch this.” Grace shuffled her feet, tapping her dance shoes on the kitchen floor.
“Wow!” Mom said. “You’re getting good.”
Grace did a spin. She loved to dance.
Her older brother Nate came down the stairs. It was time for him to ride his bike to school.
“Bye, Mom! Bye, Grace,” he said, running out the door.
“Can I run to the end of the street with him and then run back?” Grace asked Mom.
Mom glanced at the clock. “Sure,” she said. “You still have time before you have to leave for school.”
Grace kicked off her tap shoes and quickly put on her sneakers. She burst out the door. Nate was climbing onto his bike. Grace ran beside him until he got to the end of the street. She waved as he turned the corner. Then she turned and skipped back home.
“I’m back!” Grace called to Mom. She plopped down on the couch.
“That was so fast!” Mom said. She sat down next to Grace. “Look at all these amazing things you can do. Dance. Run. Your body is a wonderful gift.”
Grace thought about that. She didn’t think her body was that wonderful. Especially when she compared herself to the other kids at school. Sometimes she even complained about her body.
But she did love running. And she felt so happy when she danced. And that was all thanks to her body. She swung her legs and grinned. Maybe her body was wonderful.
A few days later, Mom picked Grace up from school. “How was your day?” Mom asked.
“Good.” Grace climbed into the car and buckled her seatbelt. “Well, mostly good. At lunch a boy said something mean about my body.”
Mom glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”
Grace shrugged. “I told him what he said wasn’t kind. And then I left and talked to other kids.”
“I’m proud of you,” Mom said. “How did you stay so calm?”
Grace bounced her feet. “Well, I remembered what you told me. About how my body is a gift from Heavenly Father. I know that if I take care of my body, He will bless me to be able to do what I need to do.”
Mom parked in front of their house. “You are absolutely right! Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. I’m going to go for a bike ride before I do my homework, OK?” Grace bounced out of the car. Soon she was on her bike, pedaling fast down the sidewalk.
She loved her body, no matter what anyone else said. Her body was a gift.
Grace whooped and pedaled even faster.
This story took place in the USA.

I have been a member of the Church for seven years. During that time, I have always known that this is the only true Church of the Lord Jesus Christ, but at one time in my life, I wasn’t very active.
The problem started when our family moved to a new town. It took us a few months to identify the location of the meetinghouse we were supposed to go to and a few more weeks to start attending. I wasn’t very excited about the change, and after a few weeks, I stopped attending.
One day I received an unexpected but welcome visit from my bishop. He invited me to come back to church on Sundays and to attend seminary. I decided to accept these invitations.
A few weeks after I started going back to church, the bishop introduced the Duty to God program to me. He explained what it consisted of, and I became interested in starting on it.
I started filling out and completing the goals in the pamphlets. I began to realize that the Duty to God program was helping me change my life for the better. I became more active in the Church and loved going to seminary. I am trying to live the standards of the Church better, and I love to read the scriptures and the Liahona.
When I started the Duty to God program, I set goals such as going on a mission and attending the Latter-day Saint preparatory school Benemérito de las Américas, along with many other goals. Last fall, I received the Duty to God Award and the Melchizedek Priesthood, and I’ll be going on a mission soon.
I thank my Heavenly Father each day for giving me the chance to change and become a worthy member of His Church. I am grateful for the programs and leaders of the Church that helped me change.

The doctor’s words, “Chris, you have a tumor. Chris, you have cancer,” sent waves of shock, fear, and despair through me. I had felt sure the lump was a hernia or maybe a swollen lymph node, but it was not.
After my 15-year-old son’s diagnosis, events happened very quickly. The following morning we were at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City for more CT scans, a bone scan, an MRI, a bone marrow aspiration, and a tumor biopsy. The news was not good. Chris had a small tumor on his pelvis near his left thigh. It was diagnosed as Ewing’s sarcoma, a type of bone cancer. Chemotherapy was scheduled to begin the next week.
As a nurse, I knew what we were in for medically. But I never expected the overwhelming fear and gloom that came over me. Those feelings soon changed, however.
Chris wasn’t even home from the hospital a day when his friends Ben Williams, Ben Brookes, and Jeremy Lamb picked him up so they could go to another friend’s house to watch videos and eat. That by itself calmed me. They were doing normal teenage things, and I was so relieved to see them not treating Chris any differently. I later found out the boys didn’t even talk about Chris’s cancer. “Why should they?” Chris asked.
When the chemotherapy began, so did the inevitable side effects, including hair loss. I don’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did—probably more than it bothered Chris. At first, there was hair on his pillow. Then it was in the sink. Finally, Chris shaved off what hair was left. Later that afternoon with Chris napping on the couch, the two Bens and Jeremy knocked at the door. As they came in, they doffed their hats to show Chris their cleanly shaved heads. They laughed together and watched a video of them all shaving each other’s heads.
“Now I wasn’t the only one with a shaved head. I just had the smoothest,” explained Chris.
A few days later at school, the four boys were walking down the hallway when a girl said, “They look like they have cancer.” Alone, that remark could have been devastating. Together, they just laughed about it.
One Sunday, as my husband and I sat in fast and testimony meeting with Chris’s older brother, Jeremy, fear continued to engulf me. Chris had been hospitalized again with a fever and low blood counts. We were new in our ward, and very few people knew of Chris’s condition. As I listened half-heartedly, a high councilman stood at the pulpit to bear his testimony. He talked about his love for some of the youth he’d met in another ward in our stake. He talked about how three of the priests there had shaved their heads for a friend who had cancer. Then his voice broke slightly when he said, “That boy lives in our ward now and is my home teacher.
“I wonder,” he continued, “if our youth would be that supportive.” The challenge was taken and met. That afternoon, our ward was graced by several very bald young men, including Chris’s older brother, Jeremy.
“One Sunday before sacrament meeting we were all lined up, and all of us were bald. The congregation just laughed,” Chris said.
Since that time, both the young men and young women of our ward continued to support Chris and our family. During one particularly hard hospitalization, friends traveled an hour to visit him and cheer him up. Two days after he came home, they picked him up and took him out for all-you-can-eat pizza.
Each day the young men of the ward would gather at the Owenses’ home across the street from us. They are the only ones with a usable basketball court, and the young men would come to play ball. As I watched out the window as they played, Chris would sometimes stop playing and just sit on the grass with some of the younger kids who had gathered and laugh with them as they’d steal his hat and rub his smooth head. “Even though it was my hardest summer, it was also my funnest,” said Chris.
And the love and support didn’t stop. Last September after church, we noticed a crowd of young men, young women, children, and their leaders walking toward our door. As they filled our small living room, they surprised Chris with a homemade quilt and pillow. The blocks of the quilt were each designed by different young women or young men with their own well-wishes, jokes, and funny pictures. They asked Chris to take the quilt and pillow with him to the hospital so he could be reminded of them and their love.
“The comments and pictures on the quilt made me laugh,” said Chris. “When I saw them coming up our driveway, I thought it must be some kind of activity, and I wondered why I hadn’t been told about it. It was a neat thing for them to do.”
After the young people had presented the quilt, the Sambongis, our neighbors from Japan, gave Chris his gift, a sembazuru, which translated means 1,000 paper cranes. The Sambongis told Chris that in Japan, cranes are said to live as long as 1,000 years, and that a paper crane will take away sickness when it flies away. They also gave him a note:
“Dear Chris, These paper cranes were made by a lot of people, including people in our ward and those you have never met before. We all pray for your recovery, and may the Lord bless you.”
The Lord has blessed us—with good neighbors, friends, professionals, and especially strong, loving young men and young women. And Chris knows it too.
The youth and the leaders of the Orem Sharon Park Third Ward, and Chris’s three friends from the Sixth Ward have been great. Their kindness and thoughtfulness during a very painful and difficult time has helped much more than they’ll ever know.

Linda and Robbie came poking down the stairway of the old farmhouse where Grandma and Grandpa lived. They always dawdled when it was time to go home.
“Hurry up!” Mom called out. And Dad’s voice came from outside, urging them to get a move on.
The children hurried a little faster, but not much. They hugged Grandma and Grandpa good-bye and then got into the back of the car. When Dad turned the ignition key, there was a strange whirring noise. When he tried to start the car again—nothing.
“Oh, no!” he cried.
Grandpa walked over to the car. “What is it, Ben?”
Dad shook his head. “The starting motor’s on the hummer.”
“Won’t the car go?” Robbie asked.
“No, it won’t,” Dad replied.
“Then I guess we’ll just have to stay here for Thanksgiving,” Linda said, a note of hope in her voice.
“I have to get home for that business meeting tomorrow,” Dad agonized. “But how can I?”
“Well,” Grandpa suggested, “you could take my car.”
Dad looked surprised. “You mean Lisbeth? That old Model T?”
“Only car I have,” Grandpa replied.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Dad said. “I’ve never driven a Model T. Besides, it—it might break down!”
“It’s easy to drive,” Grandpa persuaded, “and it’s been running for over fifty years. Don’t think it’ll break down now.”
“Oh, let’s!” Linda said. “I love Lisbeth.”
Grandpa and Dad went out to the barn, and Linda and Robbie trailed along behind. Grandpa opened the barn door, and there waited Lisbeth—shiny and black. Her top was folded down for nice weather, and there were side curtains to snap in place when the top was up during bad weather.
There were two little levers on the steering wheel, and Grandpa adjusted them just so, then he went around in front of Lisbeth and took hold of the crank. He turned it a couple of times and Lisbeth started. The children climbed in back, with Grandpa and Dad in front. Grandpa told Dad what to do. Dad drove Lisbeth around the barnyard and between the chicken coops a couple of times to get the feel of it. When he felt confident that he could drive it, he parked the Model T beside his own car. After they had loaded everything and everyone into Lisbeth, Dad released the hand brake, then pushed one of the foot pedals, adjusted the throttle lever, and they were on their way down the lane.
Lisbeth’s engine was noisy. Her body rattled, and the ride was not very smooth. Dad frowned. But Mom hid a grin, while Linda and Robbie squealed and bounced up and down on the back seat. At the end of the lane they pulled up onto a blacktop road. Lisbeth ran more smoothly and rattled less, but she was slow. “It’ll take a week to get home at this rate,” Dad muttered.
“Pull her ears down,” Robbie said, pointing to the little levers on the steering column. “That’s what Grandpa does.”
Dad pulled the little levers all the way down and Lisbeth ran faster, but not much.
Dad pulled into the first service station they came to. The station man looked at the old car and frowned. “That’s Mr. Jackson’s car,” he said. “What are you doing with it?”
“He’s my grandpa,” Linda piped up. “We had to borrow it.”
“I’d like the tank filled,” said Dad, getting out of the car and removing the front seat cushion that covered the gas tank. “And please check the oil and tires too.”
Soon they were on their way again, rolling along a superhighway.
The newer cars whooshed past. Horns honked, and people laughed and waved. Linda and Robbie waved back, and Dad hunched down lower in the seat.
Then Robbie said, “Uh, oh. There’s a police car right behind us with its red light flashing.”
Dad pulled onto the shoulder of the road and stopped. The policeman parked behind their car and came up to them.
“What’s wrong, officer?” Dad inquired.
“See that sign just ahead?” the officer asked, pointing. “It says you have to drive at least forty-five miles an hour on this freeway.”
Dad nodded. “I’d be glad to, officer, but Lisbeth—this car—just can’t quite go forty-five miles an hour.”
“Then you’ll have to leave the freeway at the next off ramp,” the officer said. “Sorry.”
Dad drove down the off ramp to an older, rougher road. “I don’t think we’ll make it home today,” Dad said. “I’m sure Lisbeth doesn’t have very powerful lights. If dark catches us, we’ll have to stop at a motel.”
“Like a vacation!” Linda shouted. “That’ll be fun, huh, Robbie?”
Lisbeth bounced and clattered along, and the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky. Dad turned the lights on, but they weren’t very bright. A little later Dad pulled into a motel, and they rented a big room for the night. The family played games, watched TV, and then went to bed.
Early the next morning Dad got everyone up. Linda and Robbie grumbled, but Dad paid no attention. “I have to get to my business meeting before noon,” he said, “and Mother needs to do some shopping for Thanksgiving tomorrow.”
Lisbeth didn’t much want to start, and Dad had to crank and crank, but finally the old engine came to life and the family was on its way. They watched the sun come up, then they saw their town just ahead.
Linda sighed. “We’re almost home. I wish we were just starting. Lisbeth is lots more fun than our car.”
Dad grunted. They started down Main Street but soon came to an intersection where a policeman came toward them, waving his arms.
He gave them a big smile and motioned for them to go right on down Main Street, although he was directing other cars onto a side street. Dad drove on, then had to slow down to keep from running over a clown riding a motorcycle. Another clown rode up behind them, then both clowns began riding their motorcycles round and round Lisbeth.
Linda looked on down the street where there was a band, horses, more clowns, and big floating balloons. She looked back and saw more of the same.
“Whoopie!” Robbie called out suddenly. “We’re in a parade!”
And they were—in a big Thanksgiving parade. At first Dad frowned, then he looked at Linda and Robbie and laughed. “Guess I’ll just have to be a little later for that meeting than I thought,” he said. “But I’ll be thankful if I get to it at all.”
Mom gave him a hug. “I’m glad that you can see how much fun the kids are having.”
Linda took a deep breath and looked back and forth as they drove slowly down the street between the crowds of people.
“I’m thankful for Grandma, Grandpa, and Lisbeth,” she said. “This is the most fun ever.”
Lisbeth chugged along to the end of the parade, then on home. Dad turned off the engine. “Whooee!” he sighed. “We’re all glad that’s over, aren’t we?” he asked with a sly grin.
“Oh, Dad, that was fun,” Linda said. “It isn’t every day we get to ride in a parade!”

The Lord then intervened in Cyril’s life. His conversion came through reading Ether 12:4: “Wherefore, whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God, which hope cometh of faith, maketh an anchor to the souls of men, which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in good works, being led to glorify God.”
This scripture about hope becoming an anchor resonated deeply with Cyril as he recalled nearly drowning in the Tuamotus lagoon years earlier. While he was fishing, his boat had drifted away when its anchor came loose. Despite swimming desperately to catch up, he grew exhausted. Miraculously, the boat’s anchor caught on a coral formation, stopping the boat so he could reach it. Cyril still describes this as a miracle that saved his life.
Like a rebirth, Cyril was baptized on March 28, 2024—his 50th birthday. The following month, he baptized Kahaili. The crowning moment came on April 12, 2025, when Sophronia, Cyril, and Kahaili were sealed in the Papeete Tahiti Temple. We had the privilege of attending this sacred ceremony.

In the marvelous experience of Brigham Young in February of 1847, when the Prophet Joseph appeared to him in a dream or vision, Brigham pleaded to be reunited with the Prophet. Brigham Young asked the Prophet if he had a message for the Brethren. The Prophet said:
“Tell the people to be humble and faithful, and be sure to keep the spirit of the Lord and it will lead them right. Be careful and not turn away the small still voice; it will teach you what to do and where to go; it will yield the fruits of the kingdom. Tell the brethren to keep their hearts open to conviction, so that when the Holy Ghost comes to them, their hearts will be ready to receive it.”
The Prophet further directed Brigham Young as follows: “They can tell the Spirit of the Lord from all other spirits; it will whisper peace and joy to their souls; it will take malice, hatred, strife and all evil from their hearts; and their whole desire will be to do good, bring forth righteousness and build up the kingdom of God” (Manuscript History of Brigham Young, 1846–1847, compiled by Elden J. Watson, Salt Lake City, 1971, page 529).

It’s been just over a year now since my parents and I joined the Church, and it hasn’t been easy.
We were taught by two of the finest missionaries and gained a strong testimony. But when we decided to be baptized, people told us we would be lost and end up in hell. We were told we were no good. We received a great deal of persecution.
I lost all the friends I had at my old church, which I’d been attending for 11 years. I had done a lot of baby-sitting and when I changed churches, the people who I used to baby-sit for told me that I would never watch their children again, that I was a bad influence, and that they never wanted me in their home again. They said if I ever worked in a day-care center where their children were, they’d take them out.
That all hurt me very badly. I was harassed at school, and when I came home, there would be pamphlets in my mailbox and phone calls and people pushing their way into my home. My father even received death threats, saying that if we went through with the baptism, he would die.
The death threats almost postponed our baptism. When he received one the day we were to be baptized, he nearly canceled the baptism. But we went through with it.
And you know what? I’m really glad we did.
I told my mom that I didn’t care if I lost all my friends. Yes, it hurt a great deal, but I knew that Jesus Christ had died for my sins. He had been beaten, spit on, and stabbed, and had had thorns put on his head. My troubles didn’t seem so bad in comparison.
I still get criticism about joining the Church, but Jesus Christ has helped me pull through. I have my baby-sitting jobs back, and Dad has not received any more death threats. I have found truly beautiful new friends in my ward, where there is a great deal of love, friendship, and caring. I would go through all the hardships again and face even more. I thank Heavenly Father so very much for bringing me into the true Church.

“What does ‘Families Are Forever’ mean?” Mia asked. She moved her game piece across the board. She and her best friend, Zoey, were playing a game in Zoey’s living room. On the wall was a picture that said, “Families Are Forever.” Mia liked the sound of that.
“It means that even after you die, you’re still a family,” Zoey explained. She put down a card and moved her game piece.
Mia looked around the room. It looked normal. There were couches, tables, pillows, and a TV. But Zoey’s house felt different from her own. “Do you have a forever family?” Mia asked.
Zoey looked up from the game with a smile. “Yes! My mom and dad were married in the temple. So we can be together forever.”
“Is that why your house feels different?” Mia asked.
Zoey looked confused. “Different?”
Mia didn’t know how to explain the feeling in Zoey’s house. It was happy and warm. But that sounded silly to say. “Never mind,” she said. “Let’s keep playing.”
That night Mia couldn’t stop thinking about Zoey’s forever family. She loved the feeling in Zoey’s house. Mia’s family was going to move to Ontario, Canada, in a few days. She wondered how their new house would feel.
“Mom, Zoey’s house feels so happy,” Mia said as Mom tucked her into bed. “I want our new house to feel like that.” Mia thought about how much she loved Mom, Dad, and her little brothers. “I want our family to be forever too.”
Mom listened quietly. Then she said, “I do too.”
The next day, Mom called Zoey’s mom. She found out that Zoey’s family went to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“I want to go to that church,” Mia told her parents while they packed. Their house was almost empty now.
“Zoey’s mom said she could help us find a church building,” Dad said as he taped up a box.
Mia smiled and felt a flutter in her stomach. Maybe their new house could feel as warm and happy as Zoey’s!
Once they were settled in their new house, Mia’s family started going to church. The people there were very nice. Everyone called each other “Brother” and “Sister.” Mia went to Primary with her little brothers. She loved singing songs and reading the scriptures.
Soon two young women came to Mia’s house. Their names were Sister Justin and Sister Ramos, and they were missionaries. They told Mia’s family about Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Book of Mormon. Mia loved hearing about the gospel. Even her brothers sat quietly and listened!
Mia told Sister Ramos and Sister Justin about Zoey’s house. “I want a forever family like Zoey’s.”
“Heavenly Father wants all of us to have forever families,” Sister Ramos said with a big smile. “He wants us to be happy.”
Soon Mia’s family decided to be baptized.
Zoey and her family drove all the way to Ontario for the baptisms. A year later, they came back again. This time it was because Mia and her family were being sealed in the temple!
The day of the sealing, Mia stood outside the temple with her family, dressed in white. They were all smiling from ear to ear. Mia felt warm and peaceful inside. “We’re a forever family now!” she said happily.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “We’re a forever family.”

When I was a young missionary in northern England in 1922, opposition to the Church became very intense. It became so strong that at one time the mission president asked that we discontinue all street meetings, and in some places tracting also was discontinued.
My companion and I were invited to travel to South Shields to speak in sacrament meeting. The invitation said, “We feel sure we can fill the little chapel. Many of the people over here do not believe the falsehoods printed about us. If you’ll come, we’re sure that we’ll have a great meeting.”
We accepted this invitation and fasted and prayed sincerely about what to say. My companion had planned to talk on the first principles of the gospel. I had studied hard in preparation for a talk on the Apostasy.
When we arrived, we found a wonderful spirit in the meeting. My companion spoke first and gave an inspirational message. I then responded, talking with a freedom I had never before experienced in my life. When I sat down, I realized that I had not even mentioned the Apostasy. Instead, I had talked about the Prophet Joseph Smith and borne my witness of his divine mission and to the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon.
After the meeting, several nonmembers came forward and said, “Tonight we received a witness that Mormonism is true. We are now ready for baptism.”
This was an answer to our fasting and prayers, for we prayed to say only that which would touch the hearts of the investigators.

I used to look at the Old Testament in sort of the same way I looked at fairy tales—neat stories that didn’t really mean much to me. Separated by thousands of years of history, they seemed out of my grasp. However, my seminary teacher loved the Old Testament, and his enthusiasm and humble testimony began to instill in me a greater reverence for these scriptures.
One night as I was reading, I came across this scripture: “And the Lord spake unto Moses face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend” (Ex. 33:11).
I read these words and thought little of it. The Lord spoke to Moses. Of course he did. It was only natural that the Lord would appear personally to one of the greatest prophets that ever lived.
Then I prayed, and I started to think about that scripture. I knew Heavenly Father wouldn’t appear to me that night, but maybe I should try to speak to him “as a man speaketh to his friend.” It was then that I felt his love envelop me. As I prayed, I restated what I had read in the scriptures.
“Moses spoke to thee face to face, just like a friend.” I stopped. I said it again and then again. Then it hit me. The realization was so profound, yet so simple. Moses saw God face to face. Suddenly, the days of the Old Testament weren’t so distant, and I realized that Moses was a mortal, just like me. The scriptures came to life in my mind; I simply knew that Moses had actually lived and breathed, that he, too, had experienced challenges and struggled with lack of confidence. Yet he talked to the Messiah, the Jehovah of Israel, his Lord and Redeemer, my Lord and Redeemer, in the same manner that I spoke to my own earthly father.
“Heavenly Father,” I prayed again, “I want this more than anything else. I want to return to thee!” I closed my prayer and crawled into bed, feeling His love more tangibly than I ever had before in my life.

The teens from the different wards in the Ipswich stake enjoy being around each other. They really like going to youth conferences—or conventions as they are sometimes called—where something as simple as singing together can bring the Spirit. Rebecca Fagg remembers attending her first youth convention as a 14-year-old. “I was struggling a bit and finding attending church to be quite a lot of effort. Then I went to the youth convention. The power of all the youth together made me realize how great it is to be able to go to meetings like that. When we sang, I was overwhelmed by the Spirit. I just burst into tears.”

Patti Zenger, a member of the Beacon Hill Ward, Beaverton Oregon West Stake, will never forget September 26, 1998.
Patti, partially blind from diabetes, had no idea that Laura Schulthies had organized their ward to “Walk for Patti Z.” in the Vancouver, Washington, 10K fund-raiser.
When Patti got to the church, everyone was wearing red, her favorite color, and had “Patti, We All Love You” signs pinned on them.
“It was so exciting to watch Patti realize how many ward members supported her. Ours was the largest group there,” Laura recalls.

Sixteen-year-old Dwan Chevelle Bondad, one of the speakers, shared that she was not confident enough in delivering her talk in Filipino, as English was her first language.
“I’m afraid I might not articulate my talk well,” she said.
Her parents Marisol and Oliver Bondad shared the same concern. “She’s not very good at Tagalog. Her nerves might get into her and she might stutter,” her mother revealed. “So we included her in our daily family prayer.”
She added, “We prayed hard. We were confident that the Lord would bless her.”
While reviewing her talk, Dwan had a hard time understanding her own message.
Then a beautiful turn around happened. She recalled, “The moment I gave my talk in the Celestial Room, my own message resonated with me more.”
She felt comforted. “I received the aide I needed and my anxieties disappeared,” she said. “I realized that there’s no room for worry in the Celestial Room.”

When Heber J. Grant was a young man, he worked for an insurance agent, Mr. H. R. Mann. He treated Heber like a son.
Mr. Mann: Heber, why don’t you go to the baseball game this afternoon and then come tell me about it during supper?
Heber: Thanks, Mr. Mann!
Besides working for Mr. Mann, Heber earned money writing greeting cards and wedding invitations. He stayed at the office late into the evening, spreading his greeting cards on his large office desk to let the ink dry.
On New Year’s Eve, Mr. Mann’s partner, Mr. Wadsworth, found Heber still busy at the office writing greeting cards.
Mr. Wadsworth: Heber, what on earth are you doing?
Heber: Getting my cards ready to sell tomorrow.
Mr. Wadsworth: You are the only one I’m going to give a New Year’s present to. You seem to enjoy work while most of the other boys watch the clock to see how soon they can leave.
Heber: Wow! A hundred dollars?
Heber later said that knowing he had earned the confidence of his employer meant much more to him than the money. It inspired him to succeed in business and in the community.
As prophet, he taught young people to be hard workers too.
Heber: Be inspired with a desire to labor and learn, and you will achieve success in the battle of life.

David Baugh, the deacons quorum adviser, shared a story about a raw egg wrapped in several layers of egg cartons and tape. The teacher invited the class to bounce the bundle off the wall or drop it on the floor. Then he took the package back, pulled it apart, and showed the students the sheltered, unbroken egg inside. He taught the students that the gospel was designed to protect each of them in the same way—by helping them build layers of testimony as they kept the commandments.