Gospel Story Finder

Tim Burton trudged slowly alongside the dusty covered wagon. The company had been on the trail only two hours, but his legs were sore already.
Tim knew the others must be tired too. There was little of the laughter and high spirits Tim had known during the first weeks on the trail when everything was new and everyone was eager. Now there was just the constant push westward.
Tim was surprised by the sudden stop of the wagon and the mutter of dismay from Grandpa. He turned to see the wagon tipped toward its right side.
Grandpa pulled off his hat and ran a calloused hand through his thick white hair as a crowd quickly began to gather around the wagon.
“Hit a rock and something must have broken,” the old man explained. “The rest of you had best go on.”
“Go on?” someone echoed. “But you and the boy—”
The words broke off as Grandpa said quickly, “I thought maybe one of you might take Timothy.”
Tim was too startled to do more than stare at his grandfather in disbelief, but at last he found his voice. “I wouldn’t think of going on without you. Why, we haven’t been separated since Pa and Ma died. No, Grandpa! If you stay, I stay—same as always.”
Grandpa smiled proudly and turned to the others. “Timothy’s near thirteen now, and he’s a great help. We’ll fix the wagon and catch up in a few hours.”
Some of the company protested, but Grandpa stood firm. He looked around thoughtfully. “My oxteam is in better condition than most of the others. We’ll catch up before long.”
Tim and his grandfather watched the company move up the slope amid the squeal and creak of dried-out wooden wagons and worn leather. There was an empty feeling inside Tim, and he didn’t move until he felt the old man place a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Come along, Timothy. There’s work to be done.”
Tim swallowed hard. “Are you sure we’ll be all right, Grandpa? Do you really think we can catch up with the train soon?”
Grandpa’s expression was grave. “We have a good chance if we stop looking and get working.” He moved toward the wagon, and after a moment Tim turned to follow.
“You see to the oxteam,” Grandpa instructed. “Move them to new grazing now and again. And keep a sharp lookout, lad.”
Restlessly Tim moved from one spot to another around their lonely little wagon. The morning seemed to stretch out endlessly. It was far past noon before the old man straightened. “Best we take time for a quick bite to eat,” he announced.
Grandpa ate hurriedly and turned back to his work.
“I wish I could help,” Tim said.
“You are helping,” the old man assured Tim. “More than you know.”
It was late afternoon before Grandpa straightened again, a satisfied smile replacing the worry in his face. “I’ll be finished by the time you’ve taken the oxteam to water at the stream, Timothy,” he said, stretching hard to ease cramped muscles. “With the good rest and feed the oxen have had, they should be ready for a long steady push. There’s going to be a moon the early part of the night. We can catch up with the others before daybreak.”
Tim moved quickly to bring the oxen from grazing near a small stream. But suddenly his heart began to jump. He stared in terror at an Indian who was crouched back in the willows.
With his throat closed up with fear, all Tim could do was stare. Then he gulped. He’d been too frightened before to notice, but the Indian was just a frightened boy too. His buckskin clothes were torn in many places, and there was a clumsy makeshift bandage across his left shoulder.
“Me Running Elk,” the boy said shyly. “Son of Long Bow.”
“You speak English?” Tim asked in surprise.
“Little bits,” Running Elk answered.
“Where did you come from?” Tim asked. “Are you alone?” He stepped back cautiously as the boy moved from his crouching position in the willows.
“Alone,” Running Elk answered.
Tim learned the boy had received a deep wound in his shoulder three days ago. Now he was feeling better, but was still quite weak. When he heard Tim and the oxen he crouched in the willows to hide.
Just then Grandpa shouted, “Timothy? What’s keeping you, lad?”
“I’m coming, Grandpa,” Tim answered. He turned back to the Indian boy. “I guess you’d better come with me.”
Quickly Tim told Grandpa what Running Elk had said. Grandpa nodded thoughtfully. When Tim finished, Grandpa’s first question was, “How long since you had something to eat, boy?”
“Three days. Few berries only.” Running Elk swallowed hard and turned away.
“No time for a fire,” Grandpa said. “But there’s still a bit of corn bread from breakfast and some jerked buffalo.”
The boy swallowed painfully again at the sight of the food, but he made no move toward it until Grandpa said, “Go ahead, boy. It’s for you.”
While the boy ate, Grandpa and Tim reloaded the wagon. “There’s just nothing else we can do but take you with us,” Grandpa finally announced.
Grandpa bandaged Running Elk’s wound before putting the boy in the back of the wagon. The sun was setting by the time they pulled away. It seemed a long time ago since the wagon train had left them alone.
Into the growing dusk Grandpa urged the oxen on as fast as they could go. Darkness came, and still they pushed on with only brief stops to rest the animals. The moon Grandpa had promised came nudging its way up from behind the hills, making their travel easier.
They walked much of the way to keep the load as light as possible. Even Running Elk left the wagon and walked with them.
Finally the wagon came to an abrupt halt. “Time we stopped for the night,” Grandpa said kindly. “We’re all dead on our feet.”
Tim was sure he had barely fallen asleep when he felt a sharp tug at his blanket.
“Come on, Tim,” Grandpa whispered. “It’s time to get going. It’s nearly light already.”
In spite of his eagerness to catch up with the other wagons, Tim wasn’t sure it was wise when his grandpa agreed to take a shortcut the Indian boy suggested.
“Running Elk says this way will save several miles,” Grandpa explained. “Maybe we’ll find the others before dark.”
An hour later Grandpa called a short stop. Restlessly Tim glanced around as he had done so often.
“Grandpa!” he cried in alarm.
Indians had appeared from behind all the boulders and trees. The wagon was surrounded!
Tim felt a strong knot of fear. Ahead of him, Grandpa was standing still and watchful. Tim jumped in surprise when Running Elk stepped away from the wagon and began shouting in a strange language.
The circle of Indians stood impassive for a moment, and then one of the tallest warriors stepped forward.
In a moment Running Elk turned and came back to the wagon. “This Swift Eagle, brother of my mother,” he explained. “Many hours they watch. Wonder when wagon turn from big trail. Few white men know this way through mountains.”
There was a lot of talk and laughter as the Indians expressed their thanks to Tim and Grandpa. “I tell of wound, big hunger, and how you help,” Running Elk told Grandpa. “Now my people wish to travel with you. Make sure no trouble comes for lone wagon.”
As they traveled together, the Indians made many jokes about the plodding oxen. They called the wagon a “mighty rolling tepee,” and each one came near to peer inside or to watch the wheels turn.
It was late afternoon when the wagon pulled back onto the main trail. It was dusk when the welcome sight of the circled wagon train lay just ahead.
Tim couldn’t help grinning at the flurry of excitement and alarm in the wagon camp at first sight of so many Indians approaching. A short distance from the camp, the Indians stopped.
“We turn back now,” Running Elk said.
“We sure do appreciate your help,” Grandpa said warmly.
The Indian boy smiled. “Running Elk also glad for you.” He grew more serious. “A message goes ahead through our country. Say friends travel this camp. No trouble.”
Before Tim went with Grandpa to join the other wagons, he stopped to say goodbye to Running Elk. He hoped he would see him again some day, but if he didn’t, Tim knew that even brief friendships can last for a lifetime.

When Leonie’s husband joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1965, she had little interest in the faith. Years later, her view of her husband’s church began to soften, and Leonie accepted lessons from faithful sister missionaries in Rockhampton, Queensland.
In 1968, although she still didn’t have much of a testimony, she decided to be baptised on her husband’s birthday, as a gift to him. It was probably not a great reason to take up a new religion, but Leonie said that joining the Church was one of the best decisions she ever made.

Before being called as an Area Seventy, I faced one of the most challenging phases of my faith journey. Financial difficulties left us unable to purchase food, prompting the sale of all our possessions. Witnessing my wife part with cherished mementos from her grandmother and mother was particularly poignant. Since our car was out of gas, I was walking through our town in search of a pawnshop.
While walking, I remembered a conversation with a very good friend undergoing his own profound challenges. In my attempt to help, I advised him to cultivate gratitude. His response struck a chord: “In order for me to be grateful, I have to think of someone who is going through worse hardships than I am! It is very hard to find someone like that.”
I resonated deeply with his sentiment, feeling emotionally trapped amid my wife’s suffering and my children’s sadness. Despite having placed my trust in the Savior. He had told me: “Thou art mine”1. He had chosen me with His promises of making me a “special people unto himself”2 and “to make [me] high above all nations which he hath made”3. I had adhered faithfully to practices of tithing, fasting, prayer, and temple worship, the promised windows of heaven4 remained closed, and I felt abandoned.
In moments of heightened affliction, I adopted the practice of posing two fundamental questions to the divine: “O Lord, what is thy wish that I do? What is thy wish that I should learn?” Almost immediately, a thought surfaced: “And it came to pass that he built an altar of stones, and made an offering unto the Lord, and gave thanks unto the Lord our God.”5
This prompted a contemplation of the plight of Lehi, who, through no fault of his own, was compelled to abandon his home, leaving behind his possessions, including “his house, and the land of his inheritance, and his gold, and his silver, and his precious things, and took nothing with him.”6 Having spent his entire life in Jerusalem, leaving behind lifelong dreams and the fruits of his labor, Lehi faced a seemingly insurmountable challenge. Yet, gratitude was the principle by which he lived and sought salvation. “Great and marvelous are thy works, O Lord God Almighty!”7
For Lehi, gratitude was not contingent on circumstances; it was a decision with a specific focus: Jesus Christ. And so, I gratefully discovered, “If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.”8
In the midst of my own trials, I internalized the practice of building altars of gratitude daily through prayer. My aim was to be grateful without comparison, expectation, or dependence on external circumstances—a profound shift in perspective.
At the beginning of each prayer, I intentionally directed my thoughts toward the life and mission of my Savior. The process was transformative. The more earnestly I expressed gratitude, the more the Spirit bore witness to the truths of mercy and grace. Through this practice, I gained a testimony of the “intent of this last sacrifice”9 of my Savior and that his “bowels are filled with compassion towards (us)”10.
He perfectly knew me in His mercy. As my gratitude found expression, my faith deepened, and my soul rejoiced. I came to understand that these daily altars of gratitude were paving the way to the throne of grace.11. We were blessed both materially and spiritually in the days that followed. But, for everything I’ve been through, I wouldn’t want to trade places with any king. My trials led me to draw closer to and to know my Savior Jesus Christ. He lives!

The spiritual roots of my family tree have been strengthened for three generations because of the unwavering faith of my great-grandfather.

Another example in my family history reminds me not to doubt. In 1913 in Mexico, Elder Ernest Young and his companions preached the gospel to my great-great-grandmother Maria de Jesus de Monroy, a widow; her three daughters, Natalia, Jovita, and Guadalupe; and her only son, Rafael—my great-grandfather. They were baptized on June 10. Two months later, citizens of the United States left the country because of the Mexican Revolution.

On August 29, 1913, the day President Rey L. Pratt and all American missionaries were to depart, Rafael Monroy, a 34-year-old convert of two months, went to the mission home to express his concern. “What is going to become of us?” he asked. “There is no organized branch in San Marcos, and we don’t have the priesthood.” Listening to Rafael’s concerns, President Pratt asked him to sit down. He placed his hands on Rafael’s head, conferred on him the Melchizedek Priesthood, ordained him an elder, and set him apart as president of the San Marcos Branch.

Rafael, who understood that his baptismal covenant was sacred and eternal, also understood that he should share the gospel. For 23 months he and his counselor, Vicente Morales, helped in the conversion and baptism of more than 50 people. They preached to dozens more.

Then, on July 17, 1915, the revolution arrived in San Marcos. Revolutionary soldiers accused Rafael and Vicente of belonging to and supporting the opposing army, hiding weapons, and belonging to a strange religion. They took them prisoner, tortured them, and hanged them until they fainted. Then the soldiers gave them one last chance to save their lives. They would be spared if they would renounce their religion. Rafael answered, “I cannot do it, for I know that what I have received is true.”

Rafael and Vicente did not doubt. They acted consistent with their knowledge and testimony. At the end of that day, they were executed by the Liberation Army of the South, giving their lives for what they believed.1

Once our family spent a night at the home of some out-of-town friends. The next day, our friends’ sons went to school, and we were packing up to leave. My sister and I thought it would be funny to sneak into the boys’ room and put silly notes on their bed. We also got a bottle of glue and squirted glue on their beds. Afterward, I didn’t feel good inside. It didn’t seem funny anymore. I decided to tell my mom what we had done. I knew that we also needed to clean up the glue and confess to our friends. I know that the Holy Ghost helped me to understand that what we did was wrong and that I should tell my mom about it. I learned that I should respect other people’s property.

“What’s a testimony?” I asked my mom one Sunday as we were getting ready for church. I knew that it was fast Sunday, that people would be “bearing their testimonies,” and I wasn’t sure what a testimony was.
My sister, Diana, hurried by, and Mom asked her, “What do you think a testimony is, Diana?”
“I think it’s when the Holy Ghost tells you something is true,” she said. “We’ve been studying about Jesus Christ in seminary. I have a testimony that He loves me and that He died for me. It’s a good feeling inside to know that He will help me when I have problems.”
“We can have a testimony of many things, Bryan,” Mom said. “Bearing a testimony means you tell how you know a gospel principle is true.
“I have an idea,” she added later, as we were going into the chapel. “Why don’t you write down all the things that the people bear testimony of in sacrament meeting today?”
“I can help you spell the people’s names,” Dad said. “Pretend that you are a secretary or reporter. It will help you learn what a testimony is.”
After the sacrament, Dad handed me a piece of paper and a pencil. At the top he had written, “Name, Testimony,” and he had drawn a big line underneath. I felt like a news reporter as I wrote down everything.
Brother Nielson talked about how his prayers had been answered that week, and I wrote “prayers answered” beside his name.
Brother Brown, who must be the oldest person in our ward, bore his testimony next. He told how a priesthood blessing had saved his sister’s life. Dad showed me how to spell priesthood. I know that when I have a sick stomach or a really sore throat and Dad gives me a blessing, I feel better immediately. Sometimes my stomach or throat still hurts, but I feel better. It’s like the feeling I have when I have a bad dream and Mom comes and holds me and tells me about Jesus. After she does this, the bad feeling goes away and I feel sleepy again. I think I have a testimony of priesthood blessings, just like Brother Brown.
Sister Hatty cried when she bore her testimony about how glad she was that families can be together forever. Dad whispered to me that her father had died the week before. I couldn’t think what to write down as her testimony, so Dad spelled out resurrection for me.
As I wrote the names and topics, a strange feeling began to grow in me. “Dad,” I whispered, “How old do you have to be to bear a testimony?”
“You can bear your testimony when you’re old enough to have a testimony.”
“Can someone my age bear his testimony?” I whispered.
“If a person is old enough to know what a testimony is,” Dad whispered back, “he can bear it. Children know things are true, just like grown-ups.”
When Craig bore his testimony, the funny feeling inside me grew bigger. Craig was still in elementary school, like me. He said that he was glad that his older brother, Aaron, was serving a mission. Craig said that he wanted to go on a mission, too, when he got older. I wrote “mission” by his name and thought how wonderful it would be to be a missionary like Aaron. Craig said that missionaries bear their testimonies all the time.
It was then that I decided that I wanted to bear my testimony. I wasn’t old enough to be a missionary, but I could tell what I believed in. Dad smiled and gave me a hug when I whispered what I was going to do.
When Sister Morris sat down, I took a deep breath and started walking to the front of the chapel. I felt really scared, and I wished I could run back to my seat. But the feeling that I wanted to bear my testimony kept me moving toward the front.
“I love Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ,” I said shakily and very loudly. I paused and I felt better. “I like to read the Book of Mormon. I get a good feeling when I read it, even when I don’t understand all of it. I like to pray. I know Heavenly Father answers my prayers.” The wonderful feeling had spread all over me, and I felt warm and safe, like when I am wrapped in Dad’s strong arms.
I felt really good when I finished my testimony, and I quickly walked back to Mom and Dad. Diana gave me a big hug as I squeezed by her. I whispered to her, “A testimony is a really good feeling that makes you happy inside, Diana, just like you said.” Then I added, “Bearing your testimony makes the good feeling inside feel even better.”

When I was adopted at age three, my birth mother allowed the adoption to be finalized only if my parents agreed to have my Church ordinances done after I turned 12. She thought I needed to be old enough to make the choice for myself, but it was really difficult to wait.
Yes, it was hard to see many of my friends get baptized when they turned eight, but what was even harder was knowing I couldn’t be sealed to my adoptive parents and five older siblings until I was 12. I was scared that something would happen to me and I wouldn’t be able to be sealed to them.
As my 12th birthday approached, we began planning for my baptism and sealing to my family. My parents let me choose which temple we would be sealed in. I had always thought that the San Diego California Temple was the most beautiful, so my entire family agreed to drive to California for the sealing.
I couldn’t wait to become an eternal family with my parents and siblings. During my sealing, I felt the Spirit so strongly that it is hard to put into words. Now that I am finally sealed to my family, my feelings of worry have been replaced with comfort and peace, knowing I am now eternally linked to them.

Emma sat at the big oak table surrounded by her family. It was the first of December.
“OK,” Dad said, “it’s time to discuss our individual Christmas projects. Who can tell me the rules?”
“We each do a project that doesn’t cost any money,” Ben said.
“It can’t be a material item,” Mom added.
“And most important of all, it has to bring the spirit of Christmas to someone,” Jane finished. “I’m going to baby-sit for Sister Wells so that she can get her Christmas baking done.”
Mom beamed. “An excellent project. How about you, Ben?”
“I think I’ll wrap presents for Project Merry Christmas. It’s a city program that collects gifts for the poor.”
Dad nodded. “Good plan, Son. As for me, I’ll be practicing my Ho Ho Hos, because I’m going to take the part of Santa in some local preschool plays.”
Mom eyed Dad’s tummy and winked. “It looks like you’ll need only one pillow this year. I’m going to play Christmas music at the Golden Days Nursing Home, and Kayla will help me rehearse by not crying—I hope. That leaves you, Emma.”
Emma squirmed. “I don’t know yet.”
Dad gave her a hug. “That’s all right,” he said. “But try to decide soon. Christmas comes quickly, and you shouldn’t do anything out of desperation. That wouldn’t mean as much.”
Emma tried and tried to think of something that she could do, but no good ideas came. If I were a teenager like Ben and Jane, I could do lots of cool projects, she thought. But what can a little kid do?
A week passed, and Emma still didn’t have a plan. She wanted to make someone happy by helping in some way, but her mind always drew a blank.
In church on Sunday, Emma noticed Sister Dugan interpreting for Brother Drake, who was deaf. Emma watched in wonder as Sister Dugan’s fingers flashed and danced, weaving invisible words out of thin air. She liked the hand motions and wished she knew what they meant. In an instant she had a plan.
For the next couple of weeks, Emma worked hard. Her mom took her to the library to check out books, then she practiced for hours with Sister Dugan.
On a clear, crisp December evening a few days before Christmas, Emma and her family drove to Brother Drake’s house. Before leaving the car, Emma asked her family to say a prayer with her. Then they all got out, bundled in winter coats and hats. Only Emma did not wear mittens. She flexed her fingers and watched her breath in the cold air. Dad rang the doorbell, and they were soon greeted by Brother Drake and his hearing dog.
“‘Silent night! Holy night!’” they sang. “‘All is calm, all is bright …’”* Emma’s fingers formed the words in American Sign Language—awkwardly at first but with growing confidence. When she signed the words heavenly peace, all fear left her, and her fingers felt warm and loose. She was no longer just moving them in memorized patterns, but really singing the story of the Savior’s birth. She felt this same peace as they sang “Away in a Manger.”
When they had finished, Brother Drake wiped a tear from his eye and beckoned the family inside. While they drank eggnog, he grabbed a pen and pad of paper. “Thank you for those beautiful songs,” he wrote. “I have never had Christmas carolers before. You have brought the spirit of Christmas into my home and given me an unforgettable gift.”
Emma’s heart felt as if it had grown a thousand times bigger. She said a silent prayer thanking Heavenly Father for the wonderful Christmas spirit. “Merry Christmas,” she signed carefully. “Merry Christmas and heavenly peace.”

For a few months before my mission, I lived with my brother and his family in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. After moving in with them, I found a job working with a crew framing houses.
My first day on the job, my boss dropped me off at the work site and introduced me to my supervisor. Soon I was on the roof of the garage learning how to “sheet” that part of the roof. As I looked on, I noticed that my supervisor might be in danger. He had placed a piece of sheeting down on the framework and had fastened one side. The other side was to be cut off with a Skil saw so the sheeting would fit in place.
As he was cutting, I noticed he was standing on the side that wasn’t fastened. If he continued to cut, he would end up “surfing” off the roof on a piece of sheeting. I kept silent, rationalizing to myself. Since this was my first day, what did I know? He probably knew what he was doing.
It turned out that my supervisor did slide off the roof on the piece of loose sheeting. I watched him, with the saw, fly through the air, landing on the ground on both feet. He looked back up to where he had been with a funny look on his face. I managed to control my laughter when it became clear he wasn’t hurt.
Since that time, I’ve thought more about that experience. Although it seemed funny, I’ve realized how dangerous that situation was. I’ve thought about how I would have felt if my supervisor had been badly hurt, crippled, or killed. I would have felt responsible. I knew something that could have helped him avoid a dangerous situation. I was afraid of what his reaction might be if I told him what he was doing wrong. I felt I didn’t have enough knowledge. But, in truth, I had the knowledge, the power to help save him, and I failed to use it.

Mary Titcomb, a librarian at the Washington County Free Library in Maryland, had a problem. She believed that everyone should have the fun of visiting a library and selecting books to read. Because this was impossible for most farmers and their families, who lived far out in the country, Mary decided that the library would go to them.
She designed a “traveling library,” a horse-drawn wagon that held 250 books. It made its first run in 1905, driven by the library’s janitor, Joshua Thomas. The new book wagon, with its shelves on the outside and storage cases inside, looked like a cross between a grocer’s delivery cart and the black hearse of the village undertaker. In fact, some of the farmers called it the “dead wagon” and didn’t want to use it at first. But their fear didn’t last long, and soon Joshua was covering sixteen different routes through five hundred square miles of territory and was welcomed by the people that he served. It took him four days to make just one round-trip with the library’s first “bookmobile.”

Holiness to the Lord in everyday life includes tender moments when loved ones pass. Earlier this year, my dear mother, Jean Gong, slipped into the next life days before her 98th birthday.
If you asked my mother, “Would you like rocky road, white chocolate ginger, or strawberry ice cream?” Mom would say, “Yes, please, may I taste each one?” Who could say no to your mother, especially when she loved all of life’s flavors?
I once asked Mom which decisions had most shaped her life.
She said, “Being baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and moving from Hawaii to the mainland, where I met your father.”
Baptized as a 15-year-old, the only member of her large family to join our Church, my mother had covenant faith and trust in the Lord that blessed her life and all our family generations. I miss my mother, as you miss members in your family. But I know my mother is not gone. She is just not here now. I honor her and all who pass as valiant examples of everyday holiness to the Lord.

Jared Azzarini, age 10, was devastated as he watched his coach and teammates board their flight to Goiânia for the Brazilian National Gymnastics Championship without him. He had prayed as hard as he could that the airport officials would let him on the plane so he could compete with his team. But they said he could not travel without his original birth certificate. All he had brought was a copy. The original was at home.
So while his team prepared to defend the national title that he had helped win in their age group the year before, he went home with his mother. He thought about his coach’s last words to him: “If you don’t make it to the competition, the whole team will lose. We need you.”
The next available flight was the following morning. It would get him to the competition, but just in time—without a chance to warm up or get used to the equipment.
“Mom,” he said when they arrived at home, “you taught me that when we pray earnestly, the Lord will answer our prayers. I have prayed with all my heart, and nothing happened. If I go on the flight tomorrow, I will have no chance.”
Jared’s mom reassured him that “with God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26). She called the airport. Within half an hour, the airline called and asked if Jared could get to the airport immediately. A seat had opened up on a flight that would leave right away.
“Heavenly Father really does answer our prayers!” Jared thought as he hurried to his room to thank Heavenly Father.
Jared, a member of the Intercap Ward, Porto Alegre Brazil Partenon Stake, made it to the competition in time to earn a third-place individual finish and help his team win their age division’s national championship again.

I have seen this firsthand. Several years ago, my dear wife Wendy determined to learn how to do family history research. Her progress at first was slow, but little by little she learned how easy it is to do this sacred work. And I have never seen her happier. You too need not travel to other countries or even to a family history center. At home, with the aid of a computer or mobile device, you can identify souls who are yearning for their ordinances. Make the Sabbath a delight by finding your ancestors and liberating them from spirit prison!19

Perhaps you are aware that my family were refugees from Mexico. During the years that followed our arrival in the United States, Father had a difficult time getting enough food to feed his family. I remember the time about two years after we came out of Mexico (that would be about 1914) when Father got a job in Oakley, Idaho, teaching in the Cassia Academy for $80 a month.
When Father and his brother left Mexico, they both had large families. Knowing that they would have a difficult time making a living (they brought nothing out of Mexico except what they could bring in one trunk), they joined together and pooled their earnings. After a short stay in El Paso, Texas, they went together to Los Angeles, California, where they worked as carpenters. Later they moved to Oakley, Idaho, where they could raise their families in a Latter-day Saint environment. When one of them was out of work, they divided the income of the other and thus eked out an existence for both families. My uncle was out of work one winter in Idaho. That left them the $80 my father received for teaching with which to support about seventeen people. They had to pay rent; they had to buy everything they ate; and they would have had to buy fuel, except I went out on the hillside and dug the sagebrush from under the snow for fuel. I kept warm digging, and Mother kept warm poking it into the stove.
The question came up in the family council—should father pay tithing on that $80? If he didn’t he would have $40 a month to care for the family; if he did, it would be cut down by $4, and he would have $36 a month. I remember that council, and I remember that they decided they would pay their tithing; and I remember they sent me with the tithing to the bishop. It was cold, and I didn’t have warm clothes; I really wondered what had gone wrong with Father. But I learned from that—the training of my parents—I learned there is truth in the Lord’s promises.

As a young missionary I was assigned to a small island of about 700 inhabitants in a remote area of the South Pacific. To me the heat was oppressive, the mosquitoes were terrible, the mud was everywhere, the language was impossible, and the food was—well, “different.”

After a few months our island was struck by a powerful hurricane. The devastation was massive. Crops were ruined, lives were lost, housing was blown away, and the telegraph station—our only link to the outside world—was destroyed. A small government boat normally came every month or two, so we rationed our food to last four or five weeks, hoping the boat would come. But no boat came. Every day we became weaker. There were acts of great kindness, but as the sixth and seventh weeks passed with very little food, our strength slipped noticeably. My native companion, Feki, helped me in every way he could, but as the eighth week commenced, I had no energy. I just sat under the shade of a tree and prayed and read scriptures and spent hours and hours pondering the things of eternity.

The ninth week began with little outward change. However, there was a great inward change. I felt the Lord’s love more deeply than ever before and learned firsthand that His love “is the most desirable above all things … yea, and the most joyous to the soul” (1 Ne. 11:22–23).

I was pretty much skin and bones by now. I remember watching, with deep reverence, my heart beating, my lungs breathing, and thinking what a marvelous body God has created to house our equally marvelous spirit! The thought of a permanent union of these two elements, made possible through the Savior’s love, atoning sacrifice, and Resurrection, was so inspiring and satisfying that any physical discomfort faded into oblivion.

When we understand who God is, who we are, how He loves us, and what His plan is for us, fear evaporates. When we get the tiniest glimpse of these truths, our concern over worldly things vanishes. To think we actually fall for Satan’s lies that power, fame, or wealth is important is truly laughable—or would be were it not so sad.

I learned that just as rockets must overcome the pull of gravity to roar into space, so we must overcome the pull of the world to soar into the eternal realms of understanding and love. I realized my mortal life might end there, but there was no panic. I knew life would continue, and whether here or there didn’t really matter. What did matter was how much love I had in my heart. I knew I needed more! I knew that our joy now and forever is inextricably tied to our capacity to love.

As these thoughts filled and lifted my soul, I gradually became aware of some excited voices. My companion Feki’s eyes were dancing as he said, “Kolipoki, a boat has arrived, and it is full of food. We are saved! Aren’t you excited?” I wasn’t sure, but since the boat had come, that must be God’s answer, so yes, I was happy. Feki gave me some food and said, “Here, eat.” I hesitated. I looked at the food. I looked at Feki. I looked into the sky and closed my eyes.

I felt something very deep. I was grateful my life here would go on as before; still, there was a wistful feeling—a subtle sense of postponement, as when darkness closes the brilliant colors of a perfect sunset and you realize you must wait for another evening to again enjoy such beauty.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to open my eyes, but when I did I realized that God’s love had changed everything. The heat, the mud, the mosquitoes, the people, the language, the food were no longer challenges. Those who had tried to harm me were no longer my enemies. Everyone was my brother or sister. Being filled with God’s love is the most joyous of all things and is worth every cost.

Taylor sat and looked out her bedroom window. She could see her friend Lori’s house and wondered what Lori was doing. Was Lori was looking out her window too? It had been a couple of months since she had been able to go over to Lori’s house.
Taylor hadn’t seen any of her friends for weeks, and she was missing them. She missed walking with them to school, doing school projects together, and playing with them at recess. She missed talking and laughing with her friends. She missed spending time with them.
She remembered back when she’d first heard of the coronavirus. “What’s a pandemic?” she had asked Mom. “Our teachers at school were talking about it and told us to bring our books home in case we don’t come back to school for a while.”
Mom had explained that a pandemic was a sickness that affected the whole world.
The whole world? thought Taylor. It was hard to imagine.
“To try to help people stay as healthy as possible, we have been asked to stay home and keep physical distance for a while,” said Mom.
Physical distance. Back then Taylor hadn’t really understood what that meant. But now, after several months of it, she knew all too well what it meant and what it felt like. Sometimes it just felt really lonely.
Taylor liked spending the extra time with her family, but not seeing other people in person was hard. As she stared out the window, she thought about how much she missed her friends.
“Hey, why the sad face?” Mom asked as she sat by Taylor on her bed.
“I was just thinking about my friends and wondering what they’re doing today.”
Mom put her arm around Taylor and gave her a squeeze. “Well, maybe you could find a way to let them know you’re thinking about them.”
Taylor thought about what Mom had said. That night, when she knelt to pray, she asked Heavenly Father for help. How could she let her friends know she was thinking about them?
The next morning, Taylor woke up excited. She had an idea. “Mom, I know what we can do! Could you help me make some cookies for my friends? We could put a plate of cookies on each of their doorsteps. Then I could come home and call them and tell them to go look outside!”
“I think that’s a great idea!” Mom said. “I’ll start getting the ingredients ready.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Taylor. “There’s something I need to do.” Taylor ran to her bedroom. She knelt down and thanked Heavenly Father for helping her and giving her such a good idea.
It wouldn’t be quite the same as walking to school with her friends or playing with them, but it would be a fun surprise. Taylor could hardly wait to call her friends and tell them a doorstep treat was waiting for them!

Will loved the warm desert of southern Utah. He was 10 years old—old enough to go to school and climb on the nearby red rocks and help care for the trees and vegetables his family grew. Or tried to grow, anyway. It was 1899, the driest year anyone in St. George could remember.
“We need rain!” Will thought as he walked home from school one day. No rain had fallen for months, and the alfalfa fields looked brown and thirsty.
As usual, Will felt the hot sun pound down on him, and gritty sweat started to trickle down the sides of his face. But then Will noticed something that was not usual. All the grown-ups were huddled together in small groups talking. Something exciting was happening!
“The prophet, President Lorenzo Snow, is traveling all the way to St. George,” Will’s mother explained when he got home. “He’s going to hold a special conference for us.”
When President Snow came, Will went to the tabernacle to hear him speak. The prophet said he wasn’t sure why the Lord had wanted him to come to St. George. It was a hard time for everyone. The Church didn’t have enough money to pay for the meetinghouses and temples.
On the second day of the conference, President Snow asked all the children to line up in their Primary classes.
“I shall shake hands with each child present so that they may be able to say that they have shaken hands with a man who has shaken hands with a man who saw God face to face while in the flesh—Joseph Smith,” President Snow said.
Will stretched to peer over the other children as President Snow shook their hands one by one. When it was his turn, Will looked into the face of the prophet and felt warm and light inside.
Later, Will got the same feeling again when President Snow gave another talk. He said he knew what message the Lord wanted him to share with the people of the Church: They needed to pay tithing!
“The time has now come for every Latter-day Saint … to pay his tithing in full,” President Snow said. “If you do, the Lord will open up the way before you in a manner that will astonish you.”
Will knew that what the prophet had said was true. From then on, when he gathered eggs from the chicken coop, he set aside the first of every 10 eggs to take to the bishop. When his father earned a dollar fixing a wagon, he gave 10 cents to the Lord. After his mother milked the cow, she gave one jar of the milk for tithing.
For the next three months, Will’s family and friends kept paying their tithing and taking care of their crops.
But there was still no rain. They used what little water they had to try to keep their plants alive. They knew the Lord would bless them in His own time.
Several months later, tiny dark dots began to appear on the dusty dirt roads around town. It was raining in St. George! Everyone shouted for joy as the thirsty ground drank up the water falling from the sky.
“Quick, go get a barrel to catch the water that’s running off the roof!” Will’s mother said. As he ran, Will smiled up at the sky and let the raindrops splash down on his face.
That evening, he knelt in prayer with his family, thanking God for the blessing of rain.
Will watched his family’s crops grow strong and healthy that summer. He knew that something else had grown that summer as well: his testimony of prophets and tithing.

Two Brisbane youth recently completed a unique double. As members of the 11th Regional Army Cadet Unit, Michelle Park and Rebecca Hollis received awards as cadets of the year at their annual ceremonial parade. Michelle and Rebecca are the only Church members in the cadet unit, which covers the 16 high schools in the Logan City area.
“I’ve been told the other cadets really respect us for the standards we keep,” Rebecca says. “They know we don’t smoke or drink or swear.”
“Just the same,” Michelle says, “it’s nice to have Rebecca around to help me maintain my standards.”

My grandparents used to take me to church while my parents stayed home, but that started to change the day the missionaries came to our house to visit my family. They taught my mom about the Church. When I turned eight, Mom and I got baptized on the same day. That was really neat. My whole family started going to church together. We started praying, paying tithing, having faith in Jesus Christ, repenting, and studying the scriptures.
My parents saw how the Spirit touched our lives. Mom and Dad had the desire to be sealed in the temple. They couldn’t wait for me and my brothers to be sealed to them. They went to the bishop to ask how they could do this. They worked hard to prepare for the temple.
We picked a day to be sealed in the temple. We invited Grandma and Grandpa and friends too. Grandma was so excited she cried. She told us that it is important to be reverent in the temple. She also told us we would all be dressed in white.
When we got to the temple, my three brothers and I went into a room where we sang songs and played quietly while we waited for Mom and Dad. I felt the Spirit there.
Then my brothers and I got dressed in white clothes and went to see Mom and Dad in the sealing room. They were dressed in white too. They looked so happy when they saw us. We all knelt together and put our hands on Mom’s and Dad’s hands. My baby brother, Caden, put his hand on the very top and smiled at us all. We were so happy at that moment. I could really feel the Spirit.
Mom said it was the most special day. It was my favorite day too because I knew we can be together forever. That made me feel happy.

After a couple of years, we graduated from advertising packets to telephone directories. During several summers, we loaded up our station wagon with books and children. The days were hot, the hours were long, some streets were hard to find, some addresses couldn’t be found, the books were heavy, some driveways were long and went uphill, some dogs were mean; but we had fun. Sometimes two children would go to a home, one to play with the dog and the other to take the books.
One summer one of the boys broke his foot while on the job. Within a few days he realized that he didn’t want to be left out of the summer work; besides he loved to ski. Soon he was in the back of the station wagon unwrapping the books and giving directions to the children as to how many books were to go to each house.
At the end of a day’s work, there were stories to tell, experiences to laugh at, accomplishments to brag about—and no one had any trouble sleeping. Yes, we were having fun and experiencing a sense of accomplishment.