Gospel Story Finder

In my own lifetime I have been a witness to the miracle of the restored gospel. When I was a young girl my family moved to São Paulo, Brazil, where my father had been called to preside over the Brazilian Mission. It was an exciting time for me and a great place to grow up. A favorite game for my brothers and me was to dress up and pretend to be missionaries. We spent hours scribbling our own missionary pamphlets and “preaching” and “transferring” all over the yard. For five years the nightly conversations around our dinner table centered on missionary work, and I listened intently to stories of faith told by missionaries. Even at that age I knew I was part of a great work.
There were only about 3,000 members of the Church in Brazil when we arrived there. I remember being in a very small Primary with a few other children, singing the same five songs every week, as those were the only ones translated into Portuguese. Two of my favorite songs were “A Luz Divina,” or “The Light Divine” (Hymns, no. 305), and something about a bunny in the middle of the woods (see “The Little Rabbit,” Children’s Friend, June 1955, 257).
In many ways our experience was similar to the early pioneers. We had no hymnbooks or pictures or lesson manuals sent from the headquarters of the Church. Everything that was needed to teach the gospel in Portuguese was written and printed in our mission home. All of us, even the children, were pressed into service to help assemble mission newsletters and lessons. No one shipped the Church to us. The prophet did not send us stake presidents or bishops. He did not send Relief Society presidents or youth programs. The Church in Brazil was made from the same material that the pioneers started with. The material to build the Church was in the people.
During our years in Brazil, we saw great growth come to the Church. Thousands became Latter-day Saints. Soon the mission was divided, districts and branches were organized, and new chapels were built. The new members were enthusiastic, and they grew in faith and became more experienced in the manner of the gospel.

When I was in junior high school, I used money from a paper route to buy a small motorcycle. It wasn’t new or very powerful, but it was fast enough to kick up desert dust from the trails that snaked through the cactus east of our home in Tucson, Arizona, USA.
When my motorcycle ran out of gas, I would grab our gas can. When the can was empty, I would arrange a ride to fill it up at a gas station. One day my older brother had what I thought was a great idea.
“Just borrow some gas from Dad’s pickup,” he said.
He showed me how, with a small section of rubber garden hose, I could syphon gas from the pickup directly into my motorcycle. That solution worked great—until I got careless a few weeks later.
While I was syphoning gas, the hose slipped from my hand and slid into the pickup’s gas tank! I couldn’t see it or reach it. In a few weeks, I feared, the gasoline would dissolve the rubber, which would likely clog the pickup’s carburetor.
It was bad enough that I’d been taking gas without permission, but now I’d probably ruined Dad’s pickup. How could I tell him? He was kind of strict, and I was afraid of what he’d say.
I didn’t write my dad a note about the hose in the gas tank. In fact, since I’d probably be grounded for life, I decided not to tell him. A few months later, however, my conscience got the best of me and I prayed up enough courage to admit what had happened. Instead of grounding me, he shrugged his shoulders, gave me some fatherly advice, and said, “Be more careful next time.”
After that conversation, it was easier to talk to my dad—especially when I messed up. Those chats helped prepare me for bishop’s interviews.
As for our pickup truck, I’m happy to report that that hose didn’t ruin it. It still runs just fine.

My grandfather joined the Church in the 1800s in Kirkintilloch, Scotland. As a single, young man he immigrated to the United States with the intent of coming to Utah. When he arrived in New York there was a delay as he waited for a wagon train to be organized that would take him to the Salt Lake Valley. During this time he became discouraged. He evidently had a talent for acting and had appeared in one or two amateur productions in Scotland. However, before he left for the United States, his mother, for whatever reason, made him promise that he would not pursue a life on the stage. Yet, as he spent those discouraging days in New York, he saw an advertisement that an acting company was hiring actors. He decided he would try to join them. As he walked up the steps toward the front door of the theatrical company, the words of his mother came into his heart. He paused for a moment and then turned back. He had only gone a short distance when he met someone who had been looking for him. A wagon train was being organized, and it was going to the valley. My grandfather came to Utah in that train.
Had he not stopped and remembered what he was told by someone who loved him, had he not made the decision to turn back, it is clear that his life would have been totally different and the lives of his many descendants as well. It was all decided when he paused for a moment, thought about what he was doing, what it meant to himself and others, and then decided to turn back.

I grew up in El Paso, Texas. My father fought in World War II, so while he was away, my grandpa did his best to be like a father to me.
One day while sitting on the sidewalk, I saw a car coming slowly up the street. Smoke billowed out from under the hood. When the car was right in front of me, it stopped working. A man jumped out while his wife and five children waited inside, crying. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I knew they were from Mexico because of their license plate.
Just then my grandpa drove by. He stopped and spoke in Spanish, asking them what the problem was. I kept hearing the word templo, and I thought, “That sounds like ‘temple.’” I soon found out that this family was driving to the Mesa Arizona Temple to be sealed. At that time, there were no temples in Mexico or Central America.
My grandpa took them to his house where he fed them and let them stay for the night. Then he took their car to the mechanic and had a new engine put in. When they left, he gave them extra money to help them on their way. I have always remembered the kindness he showed them.

But there are others in our everyday lives. My most memorable one had to do with modesty.
Some years ago, my daughter was invited by her boyfriend (now husband) to attend a very important work event that needed a reasonably formal dress. They went shopping and came back with this very cute but totally immodest dress. This was on a Tuesday, and the function was on the Friday. They had a minor request of me. “Please, adapt this for it to be modest enough for me to wear comfortably,” my daughter asked. Their trusting eyes and faith in me was touching but misplaced. I was effectively a non-sewer.
After succumbing to a panic attack, I figured that I was in the same boat as Nephi had been. Maybe not. I did at least own a good sewing machine. I beseeched the Lord for help, and quickly. I was a working mom, so I only had a few evenings to perform a miracle.
We found some fabric that could help. This was a strapless dress with a laced-up bodice showing lots of back. Straps were made, a bolero jacket covered bare shoulders, but the back was still a problem. I managed to fashion an insert to go behind the lacing, and at the end of it, it looked pretty good. We dubbed it the “Minnie Mouse” dress, as the black on red spots reminded us of her. That dress represented a very spiritual experience for me. I prayed at almost every stitch! The Lord gave me inspiration where I had no knowledge and guided my hands every inch of the way. Now I wonder why I didn’t call on more knowledgeable sewing friends. The idea didn’t occur to me. As a result, I had the most tangible experience of relying on the Lord to date.

I placed my heavy textbook down on the table as the bell rang for first period. My biology teacher was finishing up some work at his computer. “Hello Hop,” he said as I walked in. I sat down and unzipped my pink backpack, pulling out my homework while the other students came through the open door. I had worked hard to get my worksheet on plants done late the night before.
I greeted my friend sitting in the chair next to me. I had fun chatting with her every morning at the beginning of biology class.
“Emily, I need your help,” she said.
“What can I do for you?” I responded cheerfully.
“I couldn’t get my homework done, and I was wondering if I could use your answers. I’ve missed so much being sick, and I really need to get this assignment in or my grade will drop.”
My mind started to whirl. “But isn’t that cheating?” I questioned in amazement.
“Well, I already did this assignment, I just don’t have it with me now. Can I hurry and copy your paper before class starts?”
She was my friend and I really wanted to help her. It was a fill-in-the-blank worksheet, so the teacher wouldn’t know they were my answers. He was busy, so he wouldn’t see her copying my notes. I sat there undecided, a battle raging in my mind. Should I help her cheat, or should I refuse to help my friend? It was true that she had been sick and missed a lot of class, and I really wanted to be a good friend.
As I hesitated, my mind made a long list of reasons why it would be OK to help her. On the other hand, I knew it wouldn’t be right. Then I made a choice. I wanted to be a reliable friend, but even more, I wanted to be honest.
Apprehensively, I turned toward her. “I wish I could help you, but I don’t feel right about letting you use my answers,” I said. “I am really sorry.”
It was hard for me to disappoint my friend, but I had a good feeling inside, one that comes from knowing I had kept my integrity and been honest even with a good friendship on the line. As my teacher started the day’s lesson, many students in that first period biology class thought it was just a normal day. But for me, it was a day to remember. That day marked an important decision in my life. That choice defined what was honest and what wasn’t honest. The next time I faced someone asking me to share my answers, I had already made my decision. I had made the resolve to be honest under all circumstances.

When I was six years old, I struggled to learn to read. My teacher said I would need to repeat the first grade. My father was concerned when he heard this. So every night after dinner, he practiced reading with me. Dad made a game out of it so I would stay interested. Soon I was recognizing words when I saw them, and Dad rewarded me with praise and encouragement. We spent hours reading together, and my ability improved.
My teacher decided to promote me to the second grade. Dad was proud of me. He was always interested in my progress at school. For Christmas he bought me books he knew I would enjoy.
A few months after I completed high school, my father died of cancer. He didn’t live to see me graduate from college or medical school, but he did live long enough to know that I had learned to love to read. That gave him great satisfaction.

You could start in your room today. Is there an unfinished paper somewhere in the stacks? Perhaps it’s typed and ready to turn in. Why bother more with it? I learned why during a religion class I taught once at Ricks College. I was teaching from Doctrine and Covenants 25:8 [D&C 25:8]. That tells Emma Smith she should give her time to “writing, and to learning much.” About three rows back in the class sat a blond girl whose brow wrinkled as I urged diligence in developing writing skills. She raised her hand and said, “That doesn’t seem reasonable to me. All I’ll ever write are letters to my children.” That brought laughter. I felt a little chagrined to have applied that scripture to her. Just looking at her I could imagine a quiver full of children around her and even see the letters she’d write, in purple ink, with handwriting slanting backwards, with neat, round loops. Maybe writing powerfully wouldn’t matter to her.
And then a young man stood up near the back. He’d said little during the term. He was older than the other students and shy. He told in a quiet voice of being a soldier in Viet Nam. In what he thought would be a lull, he’d left his rifle and walked across his fortified compound to mail call. Just as he got a letter in his hand he heard a bugle blow, and shouts and mortar and rifle fire came in ahead of the swarming enemy. He fought his way back to his rifle, using his hands as weapons. With the men who survived, he drove the enemy out. The wounded were evacuated. And then he sat down among the living, and some of the dead, and he opened the letter.
It was from his mother. She wrote that she’d had a spiritual experience that assured her he would live to come home, if he were righteous. “That letter was scripture to me,” the boy said quietly. “I kept it.” And he sat down.

When I was 18, I faced a turning point in my faith. I knew a lot of people who had grown up religious but weren’t actively involved in their religion, and I felt tempted to fall into that same pattern. But I also knew that real commitment to the Church of Jesus Christ requires much more than passive discipleship, and it was time for me to make a choice.
As I decided if I wanted to serve a mission and fully commit to the Lord, I knew I needed the extra direction that a patriarchal blessing could provide. I needed some personal direction and a glimpse of what Heavenly Father had in store for me.
Although we know from Elder Kazuhiko Yamashita of the Seventy that “a patriarchal blessing is not going to map out your life or answer all your questions,” it is “a message from your Heavenly Father and will likely include promises and inspired counsel to guide you throughout your life.”
My patriarchal blessing was exactly what I needed. I found inspired counsel from Heavenly Father and confirmation that there was a plan for my life.
One of the most amazing things that happened to me on my mission was receiving a real testimony that prophets and apostles are called of God. I’d never prayed for that knowledge before, and when that confirmation came, it was really powerful to me. The knowledge that they truly do speak God’s word gave me another resource for finding direction for my life.
As Elder Allen D. Haynie of the Seventy testified: “Knowing by revelation that there is a living prophet on the earth changes everything. … A prophet is someone God has personally prepared, called, corrected, inspired, rebuked, sanctified, and sustained.”
If we find ourselves wondering about trials we face, we can ask ourselves these questions posed by President Russell M. Nelson: “What will your seeking open for you? What wisdom do you lack? What do you feel an urgent need to know or understand?”
When we know what we really need from Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, we can follow President Nelson’s counsel: “Pray in the name of Jesus Christ about your concerns, your fears, your weaknesses—yes, the very longings of your heart. And then listen! Write the thoughts that come to your mind. Record your feelings and follow through with actions that you are prompted to take.”
As I’ve learned how to seek personal revelation, I’ve realized that it brings together a lot of different aspects of what we practice in the Church. When I want to know if something is true, I rely on prayer, I study the scriptures, and I seek out the words of living prophets.
Building consistent spiritual habits keeps me ready to receive personal revelation when I need it. When I have questions or feel lost, I remember that I have a way to get the answers I need.
In those moments when I find myself asking if Heavenly Father really is guiding my life, I remember the ninth article of faith: “We believe that [God] will yet reveal many great and important things pertaining to the Kingdom of God.”
Heavenly Father has more to reveal to His prophets about the Church, and He has more to reveal to us about our lives.
As Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once promised young adults, “As we strive to trust God and follow His Son, Jesus Christ, one day we will see the finished product, and we will know that the very hand of God was directing and guiding our steps.”
Heavenly Father can make everything in our lives fit into His perfect plan as we continue to trust and follow Him.

Have you ever made a really big decision that would affect not only you but your whole family? Amelia S. of Ontario, Canada, has.
When Amelia was four, she began taking ballet at a professional dance school. She learned quickly and soon was at the top of her class.
“As I danced and leaped through the air, I felt as if I could fly,” Amelia says. “I could imagine I was alone on the stage—a real prima ballerina.”
When Amelia was eight, her teachers said she needed to spend more time at the dance school so she could prepare for a professional audition. Amelia was a hard worker, so she didn’t mind. But then the director of the school said that by the age of 12, Amelia would need to be at the dance studio whenever she wasn’t at school.
“What about her family?” Amelia’s mother asked.
“The studio will become her family,” the director said.
Amelia’s parents talked to her about her choices. She knew she wouldn’t have time to spend with her brother and sisters. She wouldn’t have time to play the piano.
Amelia thought and prayed about it. She wanted to do what was best for her whole family.
It wasn’t easy, but Amelia decided to stop taking ballet. It was hard at first, but as time went on she knew she had made a good choice. She learned she can handle changes. Her piano playing improved. Soon she was even playing the piano at a nursing home.
Amelia is a wonderful big sister. She helps her family in their garden. They all like to watch movies together as they fold laundry. Amelia loves to read. Sometimes she plays the piano in her ward. And she is glad she chose to spend time with her family and have a well-rounded life.

The group pushed on to another of George Washington’s famous camps on the banks of the Delaware River. Instead of tramping through deep snow with cold feet like the Revolutionary soldiers, this modern group welcomed the cool water of the river. Each teen was armed with an inflated tube, and they settled down to float the river.
“Tubing was fun,” said Jan Taylor of the Doylestown Pennsylvania Ward, “because you didn’t have to do anything in particular and you could talk to people. Everyone was together, and we were going so slow there was nothing else to do besides talk.”
The floaters were a little deceived about the speed of the river. They thought that it would be an easy matter to just paddle over to the bank. But when the floaters reached the point where they were supposed to get out, some people found they were caught in the current and being swept down river. They were in no real danger, but they were passing by the easiest places to get up the bank.
At this point, Tim Bothell, 19, a chaperon from the Smerna Branch of the Wilmington Delaware Stake, went to the rescue. He swam out into the current and caught errant floaters who were not strong enough to get themselves out of the river. Again and again he reached out and helped someone get into the shallow water where they could wade out.
Another group of boys brought up the rear in the river to keep an eye out for trouble. They made sure that everyone had made it down safely. Both Tim and the rear guard did these things without being asked. They were watching out for each other. They were helping each other have a good time. For these three days, strangers were closing the distance and becoming friends.

An elder from Germany told how he had always known that he did not know the truth. He described how he sometimes prayed to God to find it. After leaving the military service, he was employed in Switzerland. One day, living alone and feeling lonely, he prayed again, “Please God, send me the truth.” A few days later when he was walking down the street, a stranger approached him and said, “Young man, I am supposed to talk with you, but I don’t know why.” In this missionary’s words, “I looked into his face and knew he had the Spirit of God. His face was beautiful.” The stranger was a Church member who had been walking down the same street and felt inspired to speak to an unknown young man on a busy street in Switzerland. This elder spoke of his mission as a privilege.

In one of my school classes, we were reading a book that critiqued the Church. I knew I needed to speak up about the truths of the restored gospel. So I raised my hand. The teacher called on me, but I didn’t know what to say. For some reason, I started to sing the songs of the Articles of Faith. To my surprise, a profound reverence came over the room. Afterward there was less confusion, and my teacher and classmates treated class discussion and me with more respect.
Monique, Massachusetts, USA

George Hay was born in Erskine, Scotland, in 1836. His parents, Alexander and Jessie, were the first members to be baptised in Scotland on January 14, 1840. With his parents, he sailed for America from Liverpool, England, in 1841. They landed at New Orleans on October 19, 1841, from where they proceeded to Nauvoo, the Latter-day Saint city in Illinois.
Church records confirm that Alexander Hay was ordained a seventy in 1846, and Alexander and Jessie received their own endowments in the Nauvoo Temple. In September 1848, hearing of opportunities in Texas, and seeking a land free from the antagonism directed at that time to Latter-day Saints, the family started their journey with others to Texas in wagons drawn by mules. A long trip was ahead of them with all sorts of dangers and perils, but fearlessly the little band pursued their journey. George Hay was then a small boy, 12 years of age.
Their destination was Zodiac, a Latter-day Saint settlement on the Pedernales River, which they reached after nearly three months on the road. In company with a large party of Latter-day Saints, they decided to transfer their location to the county of Bandera, reaching there in March 1854. On his arrival in Bandera, George subsequently said, “This was a beautiful country then, a wilderness it is true, but inviting and offering our people wonderful possibilities.”
George Hay was appointed deputy clerk, then county clerk, and then became Judge George Hay of Bandera County, Texas—so a boy from Bishopton, in the Paisley Scotland Stake, became Judge of Bandera County, Texas.
Judge Hay says, “In 1861, when the Civil War came on, … I was commissioned a lieutenant, but being an officer made no difference to me. I went into ranks, stood guard, and performed all the duties of a private.”
He continues, “There are many thrilling incidents connected with the history of this country. Many tragedies have taken place, many hardships were endured by the first settlers, … many of our sons have gone out and won high places in the world, many of our daughters have married and raised manly sons and lovely daughters who are today filling places of usefulness in different parts of the country. I am proud that I can look back upon the sixty-nine years that I have spent here and realise the wonderful changes that have taken place, all for the betterment of mankind and the glory of American manhood and womanhood that brought these things to pass.”
Judge Hay spent his declining years at the old family homestead in Bandera, where for many years he and his good wife kept open house to travellers and entertained many distinguished visitors under their roof.
George Hay died at the age 89 on 6 February 1925 and was buried in Bandera. His wife, Virginia, passed away in Bandera on 6 November 1941 at the age of 97.
This story can be found in the Hondo Anvil Herald newspaper, Texas USA1.

But Elder Jesus Ramon, from Elche, Spain, the only member of the Church in his family, says, “I cried when I got my mission call to Utah. I wanted to serve my people in Spain; share the gospel message with them. I also wanted to be closer to my family and help bring them into the Church. But I prayed and knew that the call was from the Lord through President Spencer W. Kimball, and that Utah was where I should be.”

Now he is glad that he was obedient to the call. “I have seen a great deal of progress in the attitude of my family toward the Church. They are now attending church because of the change for the good they have seen in my life, and because they like the members. I feel that one of the blessings of serving a mission will be to see my family come into the Church.”

Although Elder Ramon is serving an English-speaking mission, he often is the first contact with Mexicans or South Americans living in his area of Zone Eight.

When Andrew Christofferson learned that Fia was living in Salt Lake City with the Grants, he wasted no time in calling to court her. Several months later, he asked Elder Grant for permission to marry Fia. Sophia and Andrew were married in the Salt Lake Temple on 14 June 1907 with Elder Grant performing the ceremony.
Andrew took his bride to Lehi to live in a very modest cottage. Circumstances were quite different from those to which she had been accustomed. The adjustments she had to make must have been difficult indeed. But Fia had never regretted giving up a life of ease for the sake of the gospel, nor did she regret giving up life in the comparative luxury of the Grant home for life on a small farm. She was cheerful and pleasant and made the best of her surroundings. She learned many new skills as a farmer’s wife and helped care for her mother-in-law as well.
In time their home was blessed with two sons and two daughters: Grant, Reed, Mia, and Ellen. The first boy was named after Heber J. Grant.
Because the light was very painful to her eyes, Fia seldom went out in public, but people were attracted to her home. She was known far and wide for her warm hospitality. All who came into her home felt her love. They were entertained and fed and, if downcast, were cheered and encouraged.

When the patriarch asked my son Blaine, his father, and me to come fasting to his home to receive a patriarchal blessing, he told Blaine that this preparation would help him to be able to give Blaine the blessing the Lord would have him receive.
We arrived at the patriarch’s home and the blessing began. It was a remarkable experience.
I felt I knew what the patriarch would say before he said it. The Lord seemed to be giving me some special insight about things I would need to know.
As Blaine grew a little older, it came time for him to go on a mission. He was interested in athletics, school, and many other things, and the thoughts of going on a mission did not fit into his plans.
One day, he said to his father: “Dad, do I have to go on a mission?”
His father replied, slowing his words thoughtfully: “No … Blaine … You don’t have to go on a mission. My sons are to make that decision and go because they want to go.”
He then came to me and told me that his father said he didn’t have to go on a mission, so he wasn’t going to go.
“But Blaine,” I said, “What about your patriarchal blessing? The blessing says you will have to bring the gospel to many.”
He didn’t reply but he was thoughtful. Later, he happened to meet a friend, crippled from poliomyelitis, who had just returned from his mission, excited and happy.
“Hey, David,” he said, “Why did you go on a mission?”
“Oh, Blaine, I went for the same reason every boy should go, to show the Lord how much I love him.”
The comment struck fertile ground. The words of his patriarchal blessing came back to him and Blaine committed himself to serve the Lord in the mission field.
My remarkable foreknowledge of Blaine’s blessing was a great aid to me in helping him make his decision to serve a mission. I think every mother in Zion is entitled to this kind of spiritual help in preparing her sons and daughters for the privilege and the responsibility of missionary service.

“You are each to write a poem,” the teacher said. The girls in the third-grade class smiled at each other and quickly started writing. But the boys looked uncomfortable and wondered what they could write, especially Roberto.
The teacher told them that the one who wrote the best poem about mother would have a gold star pasted by his or her name on the blackboard. Roberto half closed his eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like to see his name with a big, shining golden star beside it. But his dream lasted only a moment for he was sure that no poem he wrote would ever be judged as the best one.
Roberto looked at the blank sheet his teacher had given him. He bounced his pencil on its eraser end and then started to make some marks on the paper. I could easily draw a star, he decided, lots of them; but that wouldn’t mean very much, not nearly as much as if a big, gold one were placed beside my name on the blackboard!
Debbie waved her hand. “I’m through,” she announced when the teacher called on her. “May I read my poem now?”
“All the poems will be read at three o’clock this afternoon and you may read yours first,” the teacher promised.
Promptly at three, the teacher called on Debbie who stood up proudly and read:
Mothers buy dresses and shoes and things.
They give us parties and rings.
We wish them a Happy Mother’s Day.
We hope mothers are here to stay.
Bobby was next:
Mothers make clown suits and lemonades
And fix sore toes with keen band-aids;
But there’s one thing she can’t do, and I wish she could—
That’s learn to like bugs, like mothers should.
Eagerly the children read the poems they had written for their mothers, all except Roberto. “I can’t make a poem,” he explained. “The words don’t rhyme.” The children exchanged amused smiles. “But I’ve written what I feel,” he continued, and then Roberto read:
Mothers … mothers make …
Well, mothers make you hurt inside …
When you haven’t got one.
He looked around at the boys and girls, expecting them to laugh because he couldn’t write a poem. They looked back at him. There was no laughter in their eyes.
And everyone in the third grade was glad when their teacher put a big, gold star on the blackboard next to the name of Roberto José Martinez.

Not long ago Sister Rasband and I had an experience we shall never forget. I was assigned to preside at two stake conferences in Peru. While there, we went to the city of Puno, high in the Andes Mountains, on Lake Titicaca. At 12,000 feet (3,660 m) above sea level, we were amazed at this simple and beautiful city, high on this Andean lake. We met with stake presidents in the area and had a wonderful youth fireside with hundreds of young people from the Puno area.
One morning we were invited to visit a small group of local members who lived out on the floating reed islands of Lake Titicaca. The people who live there are known as the Uros Indians of Bolivia and Peru.
We were told that a few Latter-day Saint families had joined together and built their own small, new floating island. With excitement, we took a boat out to the island and were greeted warmly by these wonderful members.
We held their babies wrapped in the most beautiful, colorful handmade blankets. We ate the fish they caught that very day from the lake, which had been so carefully prepared and generously shared. We saw their wares and handicrafts and exchanged gifts with one another.
As we visited, we learned that their children paddled by canoe 45 minutes to and from Puno for seminary and school each day. We were also pleased that these members knew the scriptures well, understood them, and loved them. Eagerly they showed us their current temple recommends, having been endowed and sealed in the Cochabamba Bolivia Temple.
Before we were to leave, one of the mothers asked if we would kneel with them and have a family prayer. I remember well kneeling on the spongy reeds with these faithful Saints. As we knelt, she asked if I would say the prayer and, using the Melchizedek Priesthood, dedicate their new island and home.
I was deeply humbled that, there on the floating islands of Lake Titicaca, these faithful Latter-day Saint families would ask me to pray for the little island of Apu Inti and ask the Lord to bless the homes and families of the Lujanos and Jallahuis.
As I consider this special experience that the Lord blessed us with, I know a new building block has been added to my house of faith. I often think of that experience in Puno as another reminder of the fulfillment of my own patriarchal blessing.

A true story from the USA.
“Why don’t we go to church anymore?”
Sadie had asked her parents this question several times. Usually her mom just shook her head and looked almost as sad as Sadie felt. “There are a lot of reasons,” she would say at last. Sadie didn’t understand.
Just before her family had stopped going to church, her parents had let her be baptized. Sadie was happy about that, but she wished her parents would take her to church even if they didn’t want to stay. She really missed going to Primary.
Her family still did fun things together. In the fall, they hiked in the mountains. They had picnics at the park and played frisbee. They went to the play her older brother was in.
In December she and her family took plates of treats to friends and neighbors. They decorated the Christmas tree together. They spent a Saturday sledding in the snow and came home for hot chocolate and homemade donuts.
Sadie liked doing these things, but she missed going to church more than ever. She missed singing Christmas hymns and listening to talks about the birth of Jesus Christ.
This year Christmas was on Sunday. Her friend told her that the Primary was singing in sacrament meeting on Christmas morning. Sadie loved to sing.
“Can we go to church just this Sunday?” Sadie asked her parents. “Please? The Primary is singing, and I want to be there.”
Her parents looked at each other, then back at Sadie. “I’m sorry,” Dad said, “but we can’t. Not this year.”
Sadie held onto the hope that her family might go back to church someday, but that didn’t help her this Christmas.
On Christmas morning, Sadie felt the familiar excitement of gathering around the Christmas tree and opening presents with her family. She thought about how much she loved her parents and big brother and knew that they loved her.
Mom made their favorite breakfast—chocolate-chip pancakes piled high with whipped cream. "Best breakfast ever," her brother said after having two full plates. Everyone agreed.
After she helped clean up, Sadie went to her room. She thought about the Primary children singing in church and did her best not to be sad that she wasn’t there.
Sadie looked around her room for something to do. Her eyes landed on a box of colored pencils. Suddenly she had an idea. Even if she couldn’t go to church right now, maybe she could still bring Jesus into her day.
She found a piece of paper and started drawing a picture of the Nativity scene—baby Jesus in the manger, Mary and Joseph watching over him, and shepherds gathered around them all. She sang “Away in a Manger” to herself as she drew.
When she finished her picture, she took it to the kitchen and used a magnet to put it on the refrigerator door. Her parents and older brother didn’t say anything, but they did smile.
Sadie felt good. She couldn’t change how her family felt about going to church. But she could still keep Christ and Christmas in her heart.