Gospel Story Finder

During their missions they saw each other quite often at conferences and activities. They enjoyed catching up and sharing news from their separate areas. They never dreamed that in November 2003 they would be assigned as companions. Their friendship bloomed into a relationship that will last forever. They have gone from being friends to sisters in the gospel to missionary companions.
Sister Valeria Pontelli says, “At first I was afraid that working together might damage our friendship, but that fear faded the first day. This chance to work together has only strengthened our relationship, and our friendship has helped us in the work.”
Others agree. One woman, who used to be less active but has come back to church because of the efforts of these two missionaries, says, “You can’t help but love them because you can see the love they feel for each other and for everyone around them. They are my angels.”

“I look ugly,” I said, staring into the mirror in disbelief.
Gazing back at me was the same right eye as always. However, covering my left eye was the worst black eye I had ever seen.
“It’s not that bad. Really,” my friend Emily said unconvincingly.
I rolled my good eye at her and put the ice pack back on.
Only five minutes earlier my left eye had received an accidental but well-placed whack from my friend Janna’s elbow. Immediately my hands flew to my face, and I tried to stop myself from falling. Janna apologized. I could hear my friends surrounding me to find out if I was OK.
Though I was in pain, I didn’t realize what had actually happened until I moved my hands and heard every person in the room gasp.
“What?” I asked. No one answered.
I ran to the mirror. Within seconds of the contact, the skin around my eye had swelled to four times its normal size. Bright red blood filled the bruise.
“How am I going to face everyone?” I said, grabbing an ice pack from Janna’s hand. She bit her lip and apologized for about the hundredth time. I held the ice firmly to my eye, hoping the bruise would go away by the next morning.
Unfortunately, while some of the swelling did go down and the redness disappeared by the next morning, the puffy bruise had turned to a deep rose color. I looked ugly, and I felt even uglier.
I tried to cover my eye with makeup, but it just made the bruise look purplish. And nothing could help the swelling. I finally threw a hat on and wore it so I could just barely see from under it.
That day at school, I felt as though everyone were staring. I refused to look anyone in the eye. For days I couldn’t think about anything else, despite my friends’ attempts to cheer me up.
On Sunday I was grouchy because I couldn’t wear my hat to church. But everything changed during a lesson in Sunday School.
“Pray to see yourself as He sees you,” the teacher said, speaking about the Atonement and individual worth.
I touched my bruise, thinking to myself, “He sees me as a girl with an ugly black eye.” Then, as I stopped pitying myself, my perspective changed, and I wondered, “How does Heavenly Father see me?”
Tears filled my eyes as I reflected on the love He has not only for others but for me. “He sees me as His daughter, who is worth the life of His Son,” I realized.
I felt the Spirit testify of the great worth of my soul as a daughter of God. I remembered a scripture I had learned in seminary. I opened my scriptures and found it in 1 Samuel 16:7: “Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; … for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.” What I looked like on the outside was not as important as who I was on the inside.
My mind-set changed again as I looked around the room and felt an immense amount of love for the people I saw around me. The warmth of Heavenly Father’s love filled me, and for a moment I think I saw my classmates, in a small way, as Heavenly Father sees them—as His children.
I felt peace and comfort the rest of the Sabbath day, now not caring what others were thinking. I loved them, and I looked them all in the eye—with both of my eyes.

Some of us are held captive by the misunderstanding that we can hold onto Zion without letting go of Babylon.
We may want to be righteous, but not yet. We avoid the sin, but hold onto its appearance. Perhaps we seek to appear fashionable, extreme, edgy, cool, or push the limits in how we dress, speak, posture with each other.
This may include how we portray ourselves online. In a recent Sunday school class in our student stake, we discussed three questions. First, “Do you protect your credit card and financial identity?” Every hand went up. Second, “Do you protect your cyber-identity, e.g., address, phone number, class schedule, etc., which appear online?” Some hands went up.
I invited a few volunteers to share their MySpace or Facebook profiles. Let me ask you: Would you feel comfortable showing your profile in Sunday School?
Then our third inquiry, “Do you protect your spiritual identity? If your parents or bishop saw your profile what would they think? What would your spouse or children, current or future, think about you spiritually if they saw the profile you use today?”
Do you know many employers now review profiles and other online information? Most screen names are functional or for fun. But would an employer feel comfortable hiring winkydink, cutiepie, pinkygirl, hotty14 to do important legal briefs? Or what about hotstuff, daddyo, dabomb, rm34 to put a mature face on the firm’s new regional office?
One student said, “I always thought my profile was private, but now see some of the pictures and links my friends posted have got to go.” She concluded, “I want my profile to reflect who I really am.”
Let us understand Zion is the pure in heart and we become Zion by letting go of everything that is not Zion.

I gained a better view and understanding of this heavenly law by climbing atop my parents' shoulders when I was 12 years old.

I loved snow skiing and found myself in a sporting goods store standing in front of a rack of brand new skis. One particular pair of skis seemed to call out my name, sing the Sirens' captivating song, and whisper, "Buy me!" I knew at that moment that I was meant to call these skis my own. Unfortunately, I didn't have the funds for a cheeseburger, let alone a pair of skis. So I found my mother in the mall, brought her to the sporting goods store, and stood her in front of the skis so she too could receive revelation and do what every inspired mother should do--buy skis for their beloved children. I stood next to her looking at the skis, waiting for the big moment. Nothing! No whispers, no singing, no light shining on the skis, nothing! Undeterred, I made my emotional plea, asking her to fulfill my dreams, and reminded her of her role as a good, honorable mother. Nothing! I told her it was her duty to help her children to be happy. Nothing! She finally turned, looked at me, and said calmly, "Matt, you'll appreciate these skis more if you earn the money to buy them yourself."

What? I tried in vain to convince her that I would appreciate the skis if she bought them, and besides, where would I be able to earn money--I was 12 years old! Since Mom said no, then obviously I should ask Dad. Nothing! Well, actually he did say, "Matt, you'll appreciate these skis more if you earn the money to buy them yourself."

I was convinced this was a conspiracy. Not long afterward, I found work on a local farm. I pulled and shucked garlic, fed chickens, and helped load the farmer's truck for market at 5:00 a.m. A neighbor saw me working early in the morning and asked if I was interested in stocking frozen foods at a local grocery store after my farming chores. This led to another person asking if I wanted to stock all the potato chips in the store as well. Obviously there were no child labor laws when I was young, and I wasn't complaining.

I was able to scrape together enough money for a down payment to hold the skis, and then every two weeks, I walked to the mall and made a small payment on the skis. I would ask if I could see the skis, and the salesperson would bring them out from the storeroom. Oh, sweet reunion! After spending some quality time together, I would hand the skis back, wave longingly goodbye, and get back to work. It took a year to earn enough money to take those skis home. I have owned many pairs of skis in my lifetime. But there was only one pair that was never sold, given away, or sent to the local thrift store. It is this pair.

I learned that the old-school pioneer law of the harvest really did work. It took much longer than I hoped, but in due season the reward did come. It was much harder than I expected, but I fainted not. Or, in other words, I didn't quit or stop, even though I had no idea when the harvest would actually come.

I learned something else about the law of the harvest that I didn't quite bank on. Oh, I got the skis that I worked for, but I also received much, much more. For example, my mother and father were right. I did appreciate these skis more because I did buy them myself. I also harvested something of even greater and lasting value. I reaped a knowledge that I could find solutions to my challenges, that I could do difficult things, and that I could endure much better than I thought I could. I harvested experience, grit, and a determination that continues to bless me to this day.

Almost three years ago, one of our daughters got married and immediately left with her husband for medical school in a distant city. She was leaving the security of the nest to begin a family of her own. I wondered: “Did I teach her everything she needs to know? Does she know what is most important in this life? Is she prepared to build a happy home?”
As I watched her drive away, I remembered a little journal I gave her on her 17th birthday. It was entitled “Did I Tell You … ?” In it, I recorded counsel I had often given her in our late-night conversations. As she and her new husband headed for their life together, I thought of three additional entries I wanted to add to that little journal to help her make a transition more important and challenging than that of crossing the country: the transition to starting her own home and family. Let me share these entries to her and to all young people in the Church, to teach and testify of the importance of family.

Odds are there were probably a few of you who didn’t smile at all, and it makes me wonder why. Ask yourself, “Am I really a happy person?” If you are not and if it is difficult for you to smile, then analyze yourself. Know there is help available. Some of it can come from recognizing that difficulties are part of life. There are ups and there are downs. That fact reminds me of this little account shared by Elder Marion D. Hanks:
“A father [is] aboard an airplane on a short business trip. He has with him his five-year-old son and is almost wishing his son were not there because it is a very rough trip. There are downdrafts and updrafts and head winds alternating with tailwinds, and some passengers are feeling a bit queasy. Apprehensively, the father glances at his son and finds him grinning from ear to ear. ‘Dad,’ he says, ‘do they do this just to make it fun for the kids?’” (“Changing Channels,” Ensign, November 1990, 38).

Lyle started building robots. At first, nothing seemed to work right because, as he later found out, he didn’t know enough. Then he needed to learn how to build things carefully. Finally, he built a robot that worked. His goal was now to make it to the international science fair. But he lost. He took third in the state competition.

“I was extremely disappointed. I stood back and said, ‘Why, what happened? There’s a reason I only took third. There is a reason that this other project beat mine.’ I looked at it for a while. I decided I could keep better records. I could have a better paper. There should be no doubt in the judges’ minds that I built this. I needed to know everything about it. I’ve got to have a better presentation.” By the time Lyle finished analyzing why he lost, he was ready to go to work again.

“If you want to share the gospel in a meaningful way, the approach is really important,” said Tara, who investigated and joined the Church while she was in junior high. “If my friends had told me, ‘Ours is the only true church. Yours is wrong, and you’re going to go to hell if you don’t get baptized,’ I would have been totally turned off. Instead, they invited me to some of the activities. When I went, I felt this great, warm love, like Heavenly Father was trying to reach out to me—trying to tell me something. I felt it when I was with those friends too, and I wanted to find out why they were like that.”

When Mother Teresa was 72 years old, a war started in Lebanon. Someone told her that there were some children who were stranded in a hospital there and needed help. Many of them couldn’t walk or talk. They didn’t have any food to eat. And they were afraid because of the war going on outside the hospital. The children needed help getting to a safe place.
Mother Teresa wanted to help these children. So she traveled to Lebanon. When she got there, she talked with some men to make a plan.
“We need to rescue the children in the hospital,” she said.
“That’s a good idea,” one of the men said. “But it’s too dangerous.”
Mother Teresa probably looked small standing next to the men. But her faith was great and strong. “I believe it is our duty,” she said.
“But do you hear the bombs?” another man asked.
“Yes, I hear them.”
“It’s absolutely impossible to go to the hospital now,” he said. “You simply cannot go unless the fighting stops.”
Mother Teresa smiled a kind smile. “I prayed,” she said. “I’m sure the fighting will stop long enough for us to help the children.”
The men were surprised by Mother Teresa’s faith. They agreed that if it was safe, they would take her to the hospital the next day.
When Mother Teresa woke early the next morning, everything was quiet. There were no bombs. The fighting had stopped. It was safe to rescue the children! She left right away.
Mother Teresa led a group of helpers to the hospital. When she walked inside, the children were huddled together in the middle of the room. They were scared. Some of them were crying.
Mother Teresa walked quietly toward them and gave hugs to the little ones. Even the children who were most afraid felt safe in her arms. She shook hands with the older children. Her hands were wrinkled, but gentle and warm.
She knew God loved these children. And she loved them too.
One by one, Mother Teresa and the helpers carried the children out of the hospital. They wrapped them in warm blankets. They put them gently into ambulances. Then they drove them to a safe place where more people could help them.
The next day, the bombs and fighting started again. But the children were safe! God had given Mother Teresa just enough time to rescue them.

I remember once in Holland when we explained “every member a missionary” in a district conference and a sister came to see me in tears. “How can I be a missionary?” she wept. “I don’t know how to teach investigators.” We had not explained clearly and she had not understood that all she had to do was to be a link between the investigators and the missionaries, bringing them together. No wonder she was frightened.

When I was a small boy, my brother and I often walked five miles to the ranch where my father worked. In the summer it was hot and dusty. As we trudged along, sweat dripping from our faces, I prayed that around the next bend we would find two horses with saddles and bridles so that we could ride swiftly to the ranch. My prayers were never answered—or so I thought. Now I realize that they were always answered, but the answer was no.

There are inactive volcanoes near where I live, but recently one erupted. We were all really shocked when it happened. The sky was gloomy and dark, and there were lots of ashes falling from the sky. I was afraid, because we live in a pretty safe place and usually don’t have natural disasters. The scariest part was the aftershocks that came after the volcano erupted.
When the volcano erupted, my family went to stay at the church. There were lots of people staying there, which helped me not be scared. I was happy to see so many people because then I knew that they were safe.
While we were staying in the church, it was really nice to serve and minister to other people who were coming in to stay and escape the danger. I liked being able to serve without expecting anything in return. It reminded me that we need to make good decisions every day and be generous to everyone, not just in times of natural disasters but each day.

Paulo flicked a few drops of water onto his customer’s shoes and then snapped his buffing rag furiously across the already shining surface. The effect was amazing.
“Paulo! They shine like polished silver,” the man exclaimed. “You must be the best shoeshine boy in Rio de Janeiro. No, in all of Brazil!”
Chico (Little One), Paulo’s pet monkey, was tied to Paulo’s shoeshine box by a leather thong and was now chattering angrily from Paulo’s shoulder. His shrill voice screeched louder and louder as he flipped one somersault after another, while slapping his pink bald head with his tiny, wrinkled hands.
“Oh, excuse me, Chico,” the man said. “I did not mean to forget you, for you are, indeed, the best little monkey in all of Brazil.” Smiling, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny coin. “You can have this, Chico, or give it to Paulo for his new futebol (soccer ball) that he is trying to buy.”
Jabbering happily, the little monkey took the coin and flipped it high into the air to Paulo. He then stood tall and straight, proudly clapping his hands.
“It would seem that Chico wants you to buy that new futebol,” the man remarked. “And so do I. Because of your fine work, here’s an extra cruzeiro (Brazilian dollar) to help you buy it.”
“Muito obrigado (thank you very much),” Paulo said excitedly, stuffing the money deep into his pocket. “That’s the last cruzeiro I need to buy the futebol. But how did you know I was saving for one?”
“How did I know?” the man laughed. “I think the whole town knows. Now, if you hurry, you may still have time to buy a futebol before the store closes.”
“You’re right!” Paulo said with a grin.
Clutching his shoeshine box under one arm and Chico under the other, Paulo raced through the city streets. The evening shadows were beginning to fall as the ice-cream wagons and bakery stands folded up their umbrellas and wheeled their portable units home. Merchants were pulling together metal doors to be locked into place for the night.
“Oh, Chico! I’m afraid we’re too late to buy the ball tonight,” Paulo said breathlessly as he rounded the last corner and came to a stop in front of the soccer supply store. The door was already bolted shut. “We’ll just have to come back in the morning.”
Chico sat in silent disappointment, then shrieked with excitement when Paulo pulled an old ball of rags from the shoeshine box. “Just think, Chico,” Paulo said, bouncing the ball neatly from one foot to the other, “tonight’s the last night for this old ball. Tomorrow I’ll have a real futebol.”
Paulo skillfully lofted the ball high into the air and slightly ahead of him. With perfect timing, he stepped under the falling ball and struck it a sharp blow with his forehead, sending it rolling down the street.
As Paulo slowly dribbled the rag ball homeward, it was easy to pretend he was a soccer hero. He imagined himself making first one goal and then another to tie the score. The fans were on their feet, urging Paulo’s team to win. Paulo received a quick pass from a teammate and, looking for someone to pass to, deftly dodged a charging defender. All of my teammates are covered, Paulo dreamed on. The crowd’s roar rose to a deafening pitch as Paulo sidestepped yet another defender and rifled the ball with a sharp kick that scored the winning goal. The crowd’s chant was music to his ears—“Paulo! Paulo! Paulo!”
The sound of breaking glass brought Paulo back to his senses. Chico was scolding angrily and jumping up and down on his master’s shoulder, and the fear in Paulo began to grow. He crept slowly up to a gate set in a high yellow wall that surrounded an expensive-looking house. Peering through the wrought iron gate, Paulo saw his homemade rag ball lying amid the broken remains of a beautifully decorated vase on the front porch of the house.
Paulo’s stomach tightened with fear. “A broken vase!” groaned Paulo. “That vase must cost more than three futebols.” Looking around quickly and seeing no one, Paulo began to run.
Chico disapproved and went wild, leaping and turning somersaults on Paulo’s shoulder and squawking at the top of his voice.
“Would you please be quiet, Chico! What do you know, anyway?” Paulo asked. “You’re just a monkey and people don’t put monkeys in jail or take their futebol money. So please be quiet.”
Chico’s chattering stopped and Paulo soon slowed to a walk. His legs still felt rubbery, but the pounding in his chest didn’t hurt quite so much now. What really bothered Paulo was his conscience, and he knew what he had to do to remedy that. “Chico, I have to go back,” Paulo said, retracing his steps. “Remember that church song I sometimes sing to you, ‘Do What Is Right’? Well, now I must do what is right.”
But I’m so scared, Paulo thought as he stopped in front of the house with the high yellow wall.
Looking through the gate, Paulo could see the empregada (maid) cleaning up the broken vase. He got her attention by clapping his hands (a Brazilian custom for entering a yard).
“Por favor (please), could you get the dono (owner) for me?” Paulo asked. “I must speak to him about the vase.”
The empregada left and returned in a few minutes with a tall, kind-looking man. “Can I help you, young man?” the dono asked.
Paulo hesitated. He knew what he wanted to say, but somehow, he couldn’t open his mouth to say it.
“Go on. Don’t be afraid.”
The dono seemed so friendly that before he knew it, Paulo was blurting out the whole story to him. “And that’s what happened,” he concluded. “It was an accident, Senhor, but I have money to pay for the vase.” Paulo dug deeply into his pocket and held out all the money he had been saving for his futebol. “It’s not much, but I hope it’s enough so I won’t have to go to jail.”
“You won’t have to go to jail,” the man said with a laugh. Then he added, “You must be Paulo.”
Paulo gulped. “Yes, I’m Paulo. But how did you know that?”
The man laughed again. “I think the whole town knows of Paulo and Chico and how hard they’ve been working for a new futebol.”
The man looked long and hard at Paulo and then sat down. “Paulo, it took courage to come back here when no one knew that you were the one who broke the vase. Yet, you came back and brought me your futebol money. Why?”
Paulo looked the man straight in the eye. “No one else knew, Senhor, but I did,” he said quietly.
“I’m glad you came back and that we had this talk,” the dono said, shaking Paulo’s hand. “You keep your money and buy that new futebol.” The man’s bright eyes twinkled with a smile. “However, you must repay me for the vase.”
“But, Senhor, I’ve not enough money for both the vase and the futebol,” pleaded Paulo. “How can I do both?”
“You will have to shine my shoes for three months as payment,” the man explained. “I have heard that you’re the best shoeshine boy in town. But today, because of your courage and honesty, I think you must be the best boy in all of Brazil!"

We’re really tested with this concept as parents. Our oldest daughter has borne the brunt of much of our learning. (Come to think about it, though, our other three children didn’t fare much better.) But as an active teenager, she would ask if she could go do this or that with her friends. Her requests were always reasonable, and she reminds us often that we were lucky that she even asked. But I remember once telling her no. She, of course, wanted to know why. I said, “Because I’m your father, and I figure every once in awhile I should exercise that right and just say no.” Well, how silly that was! Heavenly Father doesn’t do that because He doesn’t exercise such capricious constraints. She and I talked for quite awhile that night because she justifiably called me on my section 121 violation (see verses 39–46). So I let her go and demonstrated my love and trust for her.

Jamie opened his bank, and out tumbled a small pile of pennies and nickles and dimes and quarters onto his bed. He had been working very hard the past several months to earn enough money to add to his spacemen collection. Mrs. Bunday had paid him to carry her garbage cans to the street. He had run errands for his grandma. He had walked the neighbor’s dog. He had helped his dad wash the car, and he had collected and sold empty pop bottles and cans.
But tomorrow was Mother’s Day. I’d rather get something for Mom, Jamie decided, picking up his money and putting it into his pocket.
Let’s see, he thought. What can I get—a big box of chocolates? I’ll get caramel centers because they’re my favorite! Or maybe I’ll treat Mom to lunch at my favorite hamburger place! Or we could go to the pizza place—I love all the video games there!
But those things seemed a little selfish. Jamie thought of all the nice things that his mother did for him, such as mending his shirt when he tore it playing ball, making chocolate chip cookies just because he liked them so much, bandaging his cuts and scratches, and tucking him into bed at night and hearing his prayers.
Then Jamie remembered the special verse he had learned in Primary. He read it again from the bulletin board where he had tacked it: “God first, others second, myself third.” That gave Jamie an idea. “Hey, Dad!” he called. “Will you drive me to a flower shop?”
Later, while Dad waited in the car, Jamie went into the flower shop, laid his money on the counter, and said, “I want a big bunch of flowers for my mom for Mother’s Day.”
The lady counted the money and shook her head. “I’m afraid that there isn’t enough money for a large bouquet,” she said. “How about a small one?”
Jamie shook his head. “I want a big, big, BIG bouquet!”
The clerk thought a moment, then leaned over and quietly suggested something to him. Jamie nodded, paid his money, and walked out with a very small sack.
Later, in his room, Jamie dumped out the contents of his sack; then he went outside to complete his Mother’s Day present.
When Jamie woke up the next morning, he got out of bed quickly, grabbed his present, and ran to the kitchen. His dad and mom were sitting at the kitchen table, talking. “Happy Mother’s Day!” Jamie exclaimed, dumping four little parcels onto her lap.
Jamie’s mother was surprised and declared, “I wonder what these could be!” She opened the first tiny present—it was a package of sweet pea seeds. She opened the second present—it was a package of pansy seeds. She opened the third present—it was a package of carnation seeds. And the fourth package held daisy seeds.
“Now come with me,” Jamie said, taking her hand. “There’s more.” Jamie took his mom to the backyard. He proudly pointed to a piece of ground that he had weeded and dug up yesterday. “That’s where I’ll plant your flower seeds for you tomorrow. Then this summer you will have a big, big, BIG, bouquet!”

In the last several months we have had the privilege of helping a lovely young mother come into the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. She was looking for truth. She was looking for direction and she was looking for inner peace. In the mission field we know that the good people of the world are looking for the truth. That description of our new friend fit. Until she began a daily habit of reading the words of the Lord she felt confused, even frightened.
Before her baptism she found the church distribution center, which was at some distance from her home, and purchased her own leather bound scriptures. My husband and I will never forget the confidence and the light she brought into our home as she proudly carried her own inscribed burgundy scriptures. She told us each time she read, she felt a sense of calm, a sense of peace. She and the prepared sister missionaries rejoiced together as the restored gospel of Jesus Christ was taught by the Spirit of truth, the Holy Ghost.
“Wherefore, he that preacheth and he that receiveth, understand one another, and both are edified and rejoice together.”
The change in Christina was her reception of the light of truth through the Holy Ghost. We could see it grow each time we were together.
“That which is of God is light and he that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light brighter until the perfect day.”[12]
“And all thy children [and Christina was certainly one of them] shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children.”[13]

In a day or two we all boarded a little steamer for Copenhagen, the capital of Denmark. As I wasn’t a member of the Mormon church, I didn’t sing and feel as happy as the rest of them, but I could both hear and see they were so happy. I remember well one of the hymns: “Oh Babylon, oh Babylon, we bid thee farewell; we’re going to the mountains to dwell.” Of course it was in Norwegian. We arrived in Copenhagen the next day after staying on the steamer all night. There was no place to lie down, so I crawled up on some sacks of grain and found me a place to sleep. While I was up there and had me a good sleep, my parents and some of the rest of them were nearly frantic. They had searched for me until they had given me up. They knew it was against my will to go, and they did not say so, but from the way they acted when I came down, they must have thought I had jumped overboard. It brought joy to their souls when someone told them they had seen me and that I was all right. They could not believe it until they saw me. If I had never brought joy to their souls, I did on that occasion.

I Can Still Hobble
I went for a run. Well, let’s be honest and call it what it really is—the tumor hobble. I exercise to keep breathing right and keep my lungs clear. However, it is difficult when my tumors hurt so much. I cried, then prayed for Heavenly Father to help me. The words of a Christmas song came into my mind, and I started singing:
Be near me, Lord Jesus; I ask thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.2
I must have looked and sounded pretty funny, but that doesn’t matter at this point. I’m just grateful for the words to this song.
Then my cousin called to tell me about her daughter that just went through her second brain surgery. She reminded me that it’s a blessing I can still hobble! Nothing changed. My pain was still there, but I was lifted. I knew I could get through this day.
When things are pressing down on you and you think things are just too hard to bear, sing the third verse of “Away in a Manger,” and our Lord will be with you.

My husband, Cory, and I serve as ordinance workers in the temple. Before our shift I often find myself sitting in front of a painting of a distraught Mary and Martha being comforted by a weeping Jesus.

In the painting, the women have brought their troubles to Christ and are having a moment of undisturbed connection with their Savior. They are allowing Him to minister to them, and He is bringing them comfort and lifting their burdens.

One day I found myself craving this level of individual connection with the Savior. A thought came clearly to my mind: “I show up every morning at our appointed time for you to receive this kind of ministering. Do you?”

This question changed how I thought about my mornings with the Lord. I thought back to my recent morning scripture study, which involved a rushed listening of the audio version of the Book of Mormon at two-times speed in my car on my way to work. Although I still considered listening to the scriptures a good practice, it didn’t provide me with the depth of experience that I was craving. I was seeking rest, healing, guidance, and assurance, but I was barely giving God enough time in my life to allow for that kind of experience.

Dr. Bulane, a staff physician at the Makoanyane Military Hospital in Maseru, Lesotho, deals daily with a shortage of trained medical personnel and supplies. The people of Lesotho, a landlocked country in southern Africa, suffer from an HIV/AIDS infection rate of nearly 30 percent, a 34.4-year life expectancy, recurring drought, poverty, and a high infant mortality rate.
Because of his concern for infant mortality, Dr. Bulane registered for a training program in neonatal resuscitation conducted in his community by the Humanitarian Services Division of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Soon after participating in the June 2006 training session, Dr. Bulane saved a newborn baby boy by implementing his new techniques. “Through neonatal resuscitation techniques, the baby was saved,” he explained. “He is doing great now. … The training puts everything else in perspective. As far as I am concerned, it instills confidence. I now know exactly what to do. There is no panic.”