Gospel Story Finder

Chances are you haven’t heard of the town of Santa Maria in the Philippines. There’s not much to see in this sleepy farming community—or so you think until you climb the mountains for a sprawling view of the national capital, Manila. It’s definitely kahanga-hanga—a marvel.
And chances are you haven’t—but must—hear of Santa Maria’s other marvel, an ordinary-looking elder who is surely kahanga-hanga too. Elder Bienveniedo Cayetano can tie neckties single-handedly or give left-handed handshakes nonstop. But it’s an armful of spiritual strength that has made him an exceptional missionary.
At first glance, Bien is like any other 19-year-old Filipino Latter-day Saint serving in the Philippines San Pablo Mission. But shake hands with him and you’ll notice something unusual. Bien lost his entire right arm during an earthquake. But that’s going ahead of the story.
Bien comes from a large family. To support their widowed mother, all of the Cayetano children did backbreaking labor in the rice fields. Nevertheless, they managed to attend school. Bien garnered medals in English, newswriting, and fine arts. He won track-and-field awards.
An older brother, Chris, had previously been baptized, but the rest of the family did not follow. While serving a mission, Chris requested that the elders back home visit Bien, who was taught and soon accepted baptism. But as Bien started high school, other pursuits—including a new group of friends—made church seem less attractive.
“My brother could not force me to go,” says Bien, “and I resisted attempts to reactivate me.” But Bien knew that despite good grades and many friends, he felt empty and aimless at times. He remembered how happy people at church were, and finally decided to return.
After graduating with honors from high school, Bien studied political science at the Christian College of the Philippines. “We were talking in class about earthquakes,” Bien remembers, “laughing about getting caught in one.” Suddenly, the whole classroom swayed. It was an earthquake.
Terrified, everyone scrambled to escape. The building was dancing madly. Just as Bien was about to dash to safety through an open door, he was pinned by an avalanche of concrete.
“A broken chair jabbed at my stomach, one of my legs was in a half-kneeling posture, and I was face down,” he remembers. His fractured right arm bled profusely under a block of collapsed flooring. Yet, incredibly, a huge chunk of fallen concrete had barely missed his head. “Classmates were crying for help, but I couldn’t budge,” Bien recalls. One by one they died, including three lying on Bien. The quake struck in late afternoon, and by evening it was pitch dark. Everything was silent.
“I cried,” Bien admits. But as he wept, a Primary song crossed his mind. He started singing “I Am a Child of God.” As each word pierced the silence, a feeling of peace came, a feeling that he was no longer alone. “I prayed, saying, ‘Father, if I still need to live, then please let me live.’” As he prayed, Bien remembered the Savior. “He suffered a lot more than I did,” Bien realized. The cave-in became a tremendous spiritual experience.
As the sun rose the following morning, so did Bien’s hopes. Rescue workers pried him from the rubble and carried him to safety. His relieved family was notified. Bien was rushed to a hospital. Doctors immediately amputated his right arm. “I woke up, looked at my right side and cried out, ‘What’s happening here?’ I thought I was dreaming.” Shock turned to sorrow. “I felt so lonely because I might not be able to do what I used to do.”
After three bedridden months, Bien went home. Nearly all of his 50 classmates had perished. It seemed the same thing happened to Bien’s will to live. How could he, a right-handed person, manage with just his left hand?
While tutoring his nephews one day, Bien felt prompted to practice writing the alphabet. At first it was pure frustration. “My mind knew the shapes, but my hand had difficulty following.” However, practice makes perfect; less than a year after that fateful day, Bien was not only writing with ease but also back to his oil-painting hobby. And he resumed college.
After a year, he felt it was time to make use of his newfound strength to serve a mission. His family was aghast. “We’d really worry about you,” his mother protested.
“I know this is what the Lord wants,” Bien reassured her.
Months later, as a missionary, Bien received a family letter. “Don’t worry about us,” they wrote. “We’re boasting about you already.”
Bien’s personality affects just about everybody. At the Manila Missionary Training Center he was an inspiration, and his dedication has touched the Santa Maria branch. But Bien admits there are still some challenges, like forgoing basketball and service projects like harvesting rice.
One of Bien’s favorite scriptures says God “will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will … also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it” (1 Cor. 10:13). It’s a scripture that helps Bien see everything as a learning experience.
Mission life, he says, “is like a school where I learn much, not only about the gospel but also about myself.” He hastens to add that it was in the rubble of another school where he learned to trust Heavenly Father.
Ask Bien to sum up his blessings and he’ll share his motto: “I asked God for health that I might do great things, and I was given an infirmity that I might do greater things.”
Then he’ll smile and extend his friendship to you—with a warm, left-handed handshake.

One fast Sunday during Relief Society, a sister in our ward stood to bear her testimony. After stating that she had learned how much the Lord loves and cares about her, she shared the following experience.
She had been ill with pneumonia, and one morning she was having a particularly difficult time. Her appetite had diminished considerably, and the only thing she thought she could eat was some homemade bread. She was getting discouraged and had been praying for help to endure her trials.
That very morning her visiting teacher came to the door with a loaf of homemade bread. The sister bore testimony of the love she had felt from Heavenly Father. He had heard her prayers and provided her with exactly what she needed.
As I listened, I realized that I was that visiting teacher. I thought back on that morning, trying to remember why I had decided to take bread over at that time. I hadn’t heard a voice or felt a burning in the bosom. I just woke up that day and felt like making bread.
As I was preparing the loaves, I thought of a sister in our ward who was ill. I had felt helpless throughout her illness because I didn’t know what I could do to relieve her suffering. The thought came to my mind that I should take her a loaf of bread. I tried to talk myself out of it because the loaves turned out somewhat misshapen. But when I tasted one, it seemed fine. “At least she will know that I was thinking about her,” I thought.
I wrapped the warm, odd-looking loaf, and took it to her house. As I presented it to her, she smiled and thanked me but refused my offer of further assistance. I went home feeling good but still concerned that I hadn’t helped much.
Months later, when I heard her testimony, I understood that the Holy Ghost had prompted me in answer to her prayers. This experience taught me a great lesson about the importance of responding to the promptings of the Spirit. If an idea comes to us to do something good, we should do it. The Savior said, “Whatsoever thing persuadeth men to do good is of me; for good cometh of none save it be of me” (Ether 4:12).
Anytime we have a thought to do good, we can assume that it comes from the Spirit. We never know how important such promptings can be. I had no idea that a loaf of homemade bread would be an answer to a prayer that would strengthen a testimony. And when the sister was prompted to share her experience in Relief Society, she had no idea of the valuable lesson I learned about recognizing the Spirit.

By Samantha Anderson
In high school I never even thought about going on a mission. But after some spiritual experiences, I began to seriously think about serving. Each time I started my papers, though, something would happen to keep me from going. I was frustrated and confused. It felt like I was getting mixed signals.
The first time I started my mission papers, my bishop and I counseled together and decided I wasn’t mentally healthy enough to go. I was depressed because one of my best friends had suddenly passed away. Later, when I felt like I was ready, my bishop helped me start my papers again. But very quickly I felt sad and upset. I felt like I didn’t want to serve a mission. That made me feel like a terrible person.
I didn’t want to move forward with my papers without having a true desire to serve, so I kept going to school and living my life. During that time I prayed, studied the scriptures, and went to church. I learned a lot about myself and about God’s will for me. Because of this, I was eventually able to feel a desire to serve again.
Besides feeling pressure from everyone around me to serve a mission, I doubted myself for not wanting to go. Did it mean I didn’t have a testimony? Was my testimony not strong enough? Was I lazy? Was I not recognizing spiritual promptings? I second-guessed the strength of my testimony and my relationship with Heavenly Father.
I knew that I couldn’t serve a mission with those negative feelings, so I decided to focus on my studies and try to stay close to the Lord—going to Church meetings, praying, reading my scriptures. Eventually, I reached a point where I was OK with my decision, and I felt that Heavenly Father was OK with it too.
One morning I was reading my scriptures, and out of nowhere came this huge desire to serve a mission! It didn’t come from any pressure, it didn’t come from wanting to impress anybody, it didn’t come from anywhere but inside myself. I prayed about it, and the feeling didn’t go away—my desire didn’t go away. So I decided to start my papers again.
After all the ups and downs I’d had so far, I was super worried that I was misreading my feelings. So I started reading Preach My Gospel, I watched The District, I talked to my mom, I started my papers. And throughout all that, I got more and more excited to go. That’s when I knew that this time, the timing was right. I knew that Heavenly Father was pleased with my decision, and yet I also knew that if I did not have the desire to serve, Heavenly Father would have supported that decision as well. In the end, it was my decision, nobody else’s.
Peace was such a huge part of it for me. Knowing that the timing was right and that it was my decision created this huge feeling of peace in my heart. That was what ultimately allowed me to serve. If I had been anxious about it, I couldn’t have done it. But that’s what the Spirit does for us: He gives us peace.

Media—whether good or bad—can be habit-forming. But it is a habit that can be broken. One woman who was “addicted” to watching daytime soap operas decided to rearrange her priorities and to stop what she felt was a time- and mind-wasting practice. She succeeded and later wrote: “Sometimes our whole family watches shows together, and it’s fun. But now I’m the master. When I want to invite newsmen, actors, or entertainers into my home, I do so. But it’s because they have informative and/or morally, spiritually, and emotionally uplifting programs to offer—not just because they’re there” (LeRee Farrar, “How I Kicked the TV Habit,” Ensign, March 1977, 19).

Some time ago, while speaking in a stake conference, I noticed a cute little girl sitting on the third row right in front of me. She had what appeared to be a small handmade telescope. I thought it might be a kaleidoscope, and she was just using the light behind me. I wondered what she could see. Suddenly our eyes met. Unfortunately, her mother realized what was happening and took the little telescope away. My little friend quickly slid under her seat and never returned. I was left wondering what lens she was looking through.
As I stood there at the pulpit, I concluded that everyone was looking at me through a different lens: some through the lens of struggle and unfulfilled expectations; others, through the lens of doubt and disbelief. Still others seemed to be anticipating with faith and hope my message. A number were indifferently focused on their cell phones.
I share this story for two reasons. First, to assure you that men really can do more than one thing at the same time! Second, to raise a question: What lens are you looking through?

In the priesthood we share the sacred duty to labor for the souls of men. We must do more than learn that this is our duty. It must go down into our hearts so deeply that neither the many demands on our efforts in the bloom of life nor the trials that come with age can turn us from that purpose.

Not long ago I visited a high priest in his home. He is no longer able to come to our quorum meetings. He lives alone. His beautiful wife died, and his children live far away from him. Time and illness limit his ability to serve. He still lifts weights to keep what he can of his once-powerful strength.

When I walked into his home, he stood up from his walker to greet me. He invited me to sit in a chair near him. We talked of our happy associations in the priesthood.

Then with great intensity he said to me, “Why am I still living? Why am I still here? I can’t do anything.”

I told him that he was doing something for me. He was lifting me with his faith and his love. Even in our short visit, he made me want to be better. His example of determination to do something that mattered had inspired me to try harder to serve others and the Lord.

But from the sad sound of his voice and the look in his eyes, I could sense that I had not answered his questions. He still wondered why God let him live with such limitations on his ability to serve.

In his usual generous way, he thanked me for coming to see him. As I got up to leave, the nurse who comes to his home a few hours every day walked in from another room. During our private conversation, he had told me a little about her. He said she was wonderful. She had lived among the Latter-day Saints most of her life but was still not a member.

She walked up to show me to the door. He motioned toward her and said with a smile, “See, I can’t seem to do anything. I have been trying to get her baptized into the Church, but it hasn’t worked.” She smiled back at him and at me. I walked outside and turned toward my home nearby.

I realized then that the answers to his questions were planted long ago in his heart. That valiant high priest was trying to do his duty, taught to him through decades in the priesthood.

He knew that the only way that young woman could have the blessing of salvation through the gospel of Jesus Christ was to make a covenant by being baptized. He had been taught according to the covenants by every president of every quorum from the deacons to the high priests.

He remembered and felt his own oath and covenant in the priesthood. He was still keeping it.

He was a witness and a missionary for the Savior wherever life would take him. It was already in his heart. The desire of his heart was that her heart could be changed through the Atonement of Jesus Christ by keeping sacred covenants.

His time in the school of the priesthood in this life will be relatively brief compared to eternity. But even in that short span, he has mastered the eternal curriculum. He will carry with him, wherever the Lord will call, priesthood lessons of eternal worth.

It was among those few that the message of the restored Church began to take root. The Bamandla family of Hyderabad were already Christians when they first encountered the missionaries. Anita, 14, tells of how her brother first met the elders as they were looking for water for a baptism. When they came to her home and taught the family, Anita says simply, “I was very happy.”

After the elders came to the Bamandla home, the family began to have all sorts of problems. “That was Satan trying to stop us from coming to Christ,” says Anita. The branch president, the members, and the elders provided encouragement, the Spirit provided strength, and “we took baptism and we come to church regularly.” Interestingly enough, the Bamandlas had not been very active in their former church because it was so far from their home. But where the Hyderabad Fourth Branch meets is even more distant. Now, distance doesn’t keep them away.

“We are blessed very much,” Anita continues. “I can’t express the blessings. Our Father in Heaven is so good. I love my Father. I love my Jesus Christ.”

One day while I was reading the Liahona (Spanish), I found a phrase that remained in my mind and heart: “Adversity can make you strong” (September 1993, 33). I thought about how adversity is an essential part of our Father in Heaven’s plan, but I never imagined I would later find in this phrase the strength to go forward against the challenges of life.
The town in the Argentina Buenos Aires North Mission where my companion and I were working was filled with people of other religions who viewed two boys in white shirts and ties with great distrust. We had knocked on many doors, but the results were not encouraging.
Summer days in Buenos Aires are very warm (usually around 30 degrees Celsius) and also very humid. There is little wind. We usually traveled from one place to another on bicycles. Things were already quite hot and difficult one day—our tired bodies could practically go no further—and then it began to rain. We decided to set out on foot. The mud stuck to our shoes, and walking was almost an acrobatic performance.
As a result of this adversity, we wanted to return home. Then I remembered that phrase from the Liahona and told my companion, “Come on, Elder. All this adversity is going to make us strong.” We offered a prayer, and we both felt we should look up an old referral we had never been able to find.
We arrived at the house, and once again the woman was not there. Nevertheless, another woman, Anita, was there. She spoke with us and seemed quite pleasant, so we left a copy of the Book of Mormon with her. She promised to read it. We felt great happiness in our hearts, for the Spirit had indeed led us to her.
We returned the following day, and Anita accepted all the principles we taught her. But when it was time to teach her the fourth discussion, she told us she did not want to be baptized and that it would be better if we left the house. My companion and I were very disappointed, but we knew we were going to have opposition. So we invited her to pray and ask the Lord if she should be baptized. We trusted that she would receive an answer.
We went back the next day, and Anita had indeed received her answer in an undeniable way. Her heart was filled with peace. Ten days later, she was baptized. She finished reading the Book of Mormon and found in it an inextinguishable fountain of knowledge and inspiration.
I have since learned that after one year of active membership Anita made covenants in the holy temple and that she became a source of referrals for the missionaries and a great example to the members of her community, who began to change their views of the Church.
Today I value all the opposition my companion and I had because that was how we found the strength to serve the Lord in the best way we could. Even now that I have returned to my home in Chile, I do not become discouraged with the problems that arise in life because I know adversity will strengthen me.

Not long ago I was pulling weeds in my garden and overheard my six-year-old son use a crude word he had learned on the school playground. In the past I have threatened, scolded, and lectured when I have heard such words slip from my children, but that day I had a new idea.
I called my son over to talk with me. I asked him if he had ever heard Daddy say words like that. He shook his head no. I told my son that many people use inappropriate language, but Daddy sets an example for our family by never using those words. Even at his work, where such language is common, most people have learned that Daddy doesn’t like foul language, and they use only polite words around him.
Together, my young son and I came up with a new family strategy. We call it the “Daddy test.” If there is any question about the propriety of a word, we just think about whether Daddy would use the word, and then we act accordingly.
Since that day in the garden, we have employed the Daddy test frequently in our home. It is now a rare occasion to hear an inappropriate word slip out. How grateful I am for a husband who sets the standard for the Daddy test!

As you return to Temple Square, walking downhill south on Main Street, you pass the once magnificent McCune home (14). The story is told that the wife of the original owner was serving as a guide on Temple Square when a haughty visitor asked her about the living conditions of the typical, uncouth Mormon. She assured him that she was an ordinary native and invited him to her “typical” home, with its marble floors, gold doorknobs, carved balustrades, and third-floor ballroom. The visitor was much astonished that this was the way Mormons lived!

But before my promised blessing came, a rich blessing for the entire family came to us. It was during the time, many years ago, when sacrament meeting was held at 2:00 P.M. in the rural wards. We usually went to meeting in our white-top buggy, which would hold the entire family. But at this particular time there was much sickness—an epidemic—and parents were asked to attend sacrament meeting but to leave the children home, so Father and Mother went alone in our one-horse buggy.
When they returned, we saw something we had never seen before. Both Father and Mother were crying at the same time. Being the oldest, I asked what was wrong. Mother assured us everything was all right.
“Then why are you crying?” we asked.
“Come into the house and we’ll tell you all about it,” she answered.
As we gathered around the old sofa in the living room, they explained the tears.
When sacrament meeting was over, the country store was opened just long enough for the farmers to get their mail, as the post office was in the store. There was no rural mail delivery in those days, and opening the store briefly on Sunday saved the farmers a special trip to the post office.
On the way home from sacrament meeting, they had stopped at the store for the mail. Then, with Father driving and Mother opening the mail, they had found a letter from Box B. This was a call for Father to go on a mission. In those days no one was asked if he were able, ready, or willing to go. The bishop was expected to know, and a mission call came without warning.
Mother said that they were happy and grateful that Father was considered worthy to fill a mission. Father explained, “We’re crying a bit because we know it means two years of separation. Your mother and I have never been separated more than two nights at a time in all of our married life, and that has been when I’ve been in the canyon for poles, fence posts, or derrick timbers.”
Father went on his mission, leaving Mother at home with seven children. The eighth was born four months after he left. Our small dry farm had been sold to finance the mission. A family moved into part of our expanded farm home to rent the row cropland. We children, under Mother’s day-to-day encouragement and Father’s letters of blessings, took care of the dairy herd, the hay, and the pastureland.
It was hard work, but it was a rewarding two years. Not once did we ever hear a murmur from Mother’s lips as she sang at her work the songs she and Father had enjoyed. Letters from Father came from Davenport, Iowa; Springfield, Illinois; Chicago, Illinois; and Cedar Rapids, Iowa. These letters, along with family prayer and unity, brought a spirit of missionary work into our home that never left it. Later, seven sons went on missions from that home.

Fifth: "I was sick, and ye visited me." I'm sure we have all been sick at some point in our lives. And when you're feeling under the weather, who doesn't appreciate a reassuring visit from family or friends? I think of loneliness in this same category of need.

When I was in graduate school in Illinois, I was home teacher to a dear elderly sister in our ward, Zada Purrington. She lived alone in an assisted living center but made great efforts to come to church. We lived far from our own families and grandparents, so Zada became a kind of adopted grandparent for our young children. We loved to visit and spend time with her, even though she could barely hear us.

I know she was lonely and was often sick, but she was always happy to see us. I'm sure (I hope!) she appreciated our visits with three young girls in tow, and I know we certainly were greatly blessed by our association with her. This kind of service brings blessings in abundance to all involved.

I was wondering if The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true. I prayed about it on Saturday night and didn’t get an answer that night. On Sunday morning I prayed about it again, and right when I said the words “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” my heart got very warm. I felt the Holy Ghost say to me, “Yes, it is the true church.”Audrey Jensen, age 8, South Euclid, Ohio

We decided to visit him the next month as part of our visit to the temple. We called ahead, and he said we could come in when we got to his home. We drove into San Antonio and found Brother Para’s small home. He was lying on his bed with a white sheet covering his body up to his chin. He moved his head to the side and talked with us, his smile still beaming. He told us how he became quadriplegic after falling off a roof when he was in his 30s. He shared his struggle and his testimony.
A one-time visit to Brother Para turned into years of visits. He became a special part of our lives. We didn’t know what to do for him—his challenges were huge. What we did know is that we could be his friends. We could bring him small gifts: a picture of the Savior, a Book of Mormon CD in Spanish, a picture of the temple, a bag of fresh oranges. We could visit him, sing Primary songs, and listen to him. What an incredible experience this was—you cannot give a crumb to the Lord without receiving a loaf in return.1
He taught us gratitude, which changed every part of our lives. We learned to have gratitude for our knowledge of the gospel, for our relationship with God; for our knowledge of the plan of salvation; for our home, cars, food, and clothing; for our ability to use our bodies; for the chance to do good for our community; and for good people around us. Brother Para changed our definition of the words hard and trial. We had reason to rejoice in our many blessings and used those blessings to uplift others.

Big teardrops splashed down Bobby’s cheeks as he watched Freddie and Dick lug Freddie’s wading pool over to Dick’s house. All the way home from school, the three boys had eagerly planned making a jungle hideout in a pile of dirt behind Dick’s garage. Dick’s father had said they could.
Freddie’s wading pool would be their hidden lake. The green branches Dick’s father had pruned from his shade trees would be the jungle trees. They would use their stuffed toys and odd-shaped rocks and pieces of bark for animals. Bobby knew where there was a crooked stick, streaked brown, that looked like a snake. He planned to put it on one of the trees for a huge python, just like in real jungles.
They were going to wear their shorts and go barefoot, like Tarzan. They’d creep through their jungle with bows and arrows, looking for wild animals. Oh, what fun they were going to have!
Bobby had rushed into his house to get a snack and to put on his shorts—and there, on the refrigerator door, was the note: DON‘T FORGET, BOBBY! Love, Mom.
He was so disappointed that he didn’t even look to see what she had left for a snack. Who’d feel like eating when he had to weed two rows of corn before he could play!
It didn’t help to remember that it was his own fault. He had fooled around all day Saturday while Dad, Mom, Susan, and Peggy did their weeding. Then, when he was about ready to start, who should come but Aunt Alice, Uncle John, Nick, and Michael.
“We’ll let it go for now. We mustn’t disappoint your cousins. They have come all the way from Bountiful to play with you,” Mother had said, adding firmly, “but you may not play after school Monday until your weeding is done.”
And there was the note to remind him.
Bobby started to cry. He felt awful. He felt even worse when he saw Freddie and Dick go by with the wading pool. They were going to make their jungle without him. And it was his own fault.
Trudging to the garden, he began pulling weeds. He started working fast, hoping to finish in time to play awhile before dinnertime. Then he remembered how Dad had told him to be extra careful to not injure the tender stalks of corn. He couldn’t work fast. He had to be careful.
When he looked down at the row of corn, it looked as long as a road that never ends. And he had two of those long rows to weed before he could play! He’d never get through in time to play jungle with his friends.
Bobby started to cry again, which, of course, only made matters worse—no weeds got pulled while he cried.
He noticed a shadow approaching and looked up. His father was standing behind him.
Usually Bobby was happy when Dad came home. But not today. If Dad was home already, it would soon be dinnertime. That meant no time at all for play.
“My boy seems upset,” Dad said.
Bobby tried to sniff back the tears.
“Those rows must look mighty long to you,” Dad guessed.
“Yes,” Bobby sobbed. “And Dick and Freddie are making a keen jungle—and I don’t get to help.”
“I know a trick,” Dad said.
“What kind of trick?”
“One that makes long rows grow shorter,” Dad answered, his eyes twinkling.
“No trick can do that.”
“Try it and see.” Dad tossed a small stick a little way down the row. “If you don’t look one bit farther than that stick, the row will grow shorter. Go on. Try it.”
Bobby started pulling weeds. In no time he had reached the stick.
“Now throw it a little farther down. But don’t look up,” Dad said.
This time Bobby seemed to reach the stick even faster. Dad tossed the stick again, and Bobby weeded to it. Again. Suddenly Bobby’s head almost touched the fence. He had reached the end of the row! “Wow! The row really did grow shorter!”
“Now do the other row the same way,” Dad suggested.
Bobby tossed the stick, then weeded to it. Again and again he tossed the stick and weeded to it. Then, as if by magic, he was through!
“Now look at the rows,” Dad said.
Bobby was amazed. The two rows weren’t shorter at all. They were as long as the other rows in the garden, just like before.
Then Bobby understood Dad’s “trick”: To make a job go faster, do it a piece at a time and work with a will. He looked up. The sun was still a long way from the mountain. Dad must have come home early. There was still time for play!
“Yippee!” he shouted. He gave Dad a big hug, hurried inside to change his pants, then got his “snake stick” and rushed to Dick’s yard to help transform a pile of dirt into a dark, mysterious jungle full of adventure and fun.

By the time I returned home from my mission, I believed I knew everything there was to know about the Book of Mormon. I never admitted that out loud, of course—but looking back, this attitude influenced how I approached the scriptures after my mission.
And not in a good way.
When I studied the scriptures, I often found myself returning to familiar passages over and over again—mostly to recall and reaffirm the things I’d learned before. I definitely tried to keep pondering the scriptures to learn something new, but I never felt like I was making any discoveries. The enthusiasm I once had for the Book of Mormon started to dwindle.
Soon after returning home, I also started a new job, and my scripture study time shrank from the full hour I had studied on my mission to 30 minutes. Then I received a calling, and those 30 minutes became 15. Then over the summer I served as an FSY counselor. And I used most of my study time to review a handful of verses that I repeatedly shared with youth week after week.
I knew that Heavenly Father loved any time I set aside to study His word. But, frankly, I didn’t feel like I was following Nephi’s invitation to “feast upon the words of Christ” (2 Nephi 32:3). I convinced myself that there couldn’t be anything new to learn. Instead of feasting on the Book of Mormon, I was barely nibbling.
This attitude of complacency continued into my first semester at Brigham Young University, during which I attended a Book of Mormon class. On the first day, my professor stood up at the head of our classroom. Fixing us with a friendly but piercing gaze, he said, “My goal in this class is to convince you that you don’t know the Book of Mormon—at all.”
I was intrigued by this, but it seemed more like the sort of sharp one-liner professors say to get your attention rather than an actual promise.
Thankfully, I turned out to be totally wrong.
As part of the class, my professor assigned us to read the Book of Mormon. Not just open it and scan the words or gloss over a chapter to recall the same story we may have consumed a million times.
He wanted us to actually read.
For example, he taught us about how the original manuscript of the Book of Mormon didn’t include punctuation at all—and he had us add in punctuation to a long, confusing passage from Alma 13 to teach us about the difference that commas and periods can make. He had us read a single verse alongside an 1828 Webster’s dictionary, looking up keywords that held radically different meanings than I’d first assumed.
The class challenged a lot of my basic assumptions about what the Book of Mormon even was. I’d never realized, for example, that Nephi wrote 1 Nephi years after he and his family had journeyed to the promised land (see 1 Nephi 9:1–5; 2 Nephi 5:28–31).
I also discovered how many of the deep flaws of the Nephite culture have startling parallels to the challenges our own cultures face today.
I came to understand the careful, deliberate messages that Mormon, Moroni, and others had implanted specifically for us—and how deeply anxious they were that we didn’t get caught up in the radical skepticism and doubt of the world.
My whole perception and testimony of this book started to change as I pondered these truths.
Through truly feasting on its words, I discovered that the Book of Mormon reveals who Jesus Christ is—not just doctrinally, but personally and intimately. The book bears His signature on every page. It’s an enduring record that testifies how He hasn’t forgotten His covenant people and He never will.
I don’t have all the answers to life. But I’ve come to understand that I didn’t learn everything there was to know about the Book of Mormon from my mission—there is always more to learn and to add to our faith.

“I am so excited to see my friend again,” one young woman kept telling her parents as she prepared for the special reunion. She had recently returned home after having lived far away. She had looked forward to this moment for a long time.

When the two friends saw each other, they were all smiles. They hugged and laughed as they left together to enjoy becoming reacquainted. However, the parents were surprised when their daughter returned home much earlier than expected.

“What’s wrong?” they asked.

“I was so excited to talk the way we used to, but she just spent the whole time text messaging her other friends.” Her hurt and disappointment were apparent as she declared, “I wish texting had never been invented.”

As much as I loved my mission, I struggled to apply the lessons I learned while serving to my life afterward. I ended up returning home sooner than I expected due to mental health struggles and then moved from my home in the Philippines to the United Arab Emirates to start working.
Since moving here, I’ve had a hard time feeling like I’m making progress and moving forward on the covenant path. On my mission, I could devote all my time and energy to the gospel. I worried very little about my temporal needs or what I was going to do with my life after my mission. But now that I’m trying to balance other demands of life, I feel like I keep falling short.
And since I’m lacking both the supportive, faithful community I had back home in the Philippines and the schedule of a missionary that makes progress much easier and clearer, sometimes I feel like I’m not progressing at all.
As I’ve continued to struggle with these feelings, I’ve felt strongly that I should implement a habit I had on my mission. As a missionary I learned how important it is to connect with Heavenly Father every night through prayer and honestly evaluate my actions each day. I would ask Heavenly Father what I had done well, ask for forgiveness from my sins and for strength to overcome my imperfections, and then ask Him how I could do better the next day.
At first I was scared to start doing this after my mission, especially since I’d been feeling like I was already failing myself and Heavenly Father. I didn’t want to feel even worse about my shortcomings. But I remembered what I’d learned on my mission: repentance brings joy. As Elder Craig C. Christensen of the Seventy explained: “Repenting daily and coming unto Jesus Christ is the way to experience joy—joy beyond our imagination [see 1 Corinthians 2:9]. That is why we are here on earth. That is why God prepared His great plan of happiness for us.”1
I’m so grateful for that prompting—checking in with Heavenly Father each day has changed so much for me. Realizing that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ give me the chance to become better every day helps me have more self-compassion—if They believe in me enough to keep giving me more chances, why shouldn’t I believe in me too?

The story is told that in ancient Rome a group of women were, with vanity, showing their jewels one to another. Among them was Cornelia, the mother of two boys. One of the women said to her, “And where are your jewels?” To which Cornelia responded, pointing to her sons, “These are my jewels.” Under her tutelage, and walking after the virtues of her life, they grew to become Gaius and Tiberius Gracchus—the Gracchi, as they were called—two of the most persuasive and effective reformers in Roman history. For as long as they are remembered and spoken of, the mother who reared them after the manner of her own life will be remembered and spoken of with praise also.

Relief Society should be organized, aligned, and mobilized to strengthen families and help our homes to be sacred sanctuaries from the world. I learned this years ago when I was newly married. My parents, who had been my neighbors, announced that they would be moving to another part of the world. I had relied on my mother’s nurturing, wise, and encouraging example. Now she was going to be gone for a long time. This was before e-mail, fax machines, cell phones, and Web cameras, and mail delivery was notoriously slow. One day before she left, I sat weeping with her and asked, “Who will be my mother?” Mother thought carefully, and with the Spirit and power of revelation which comes to women of this kind, she said to me, “If I never come back, if you never see me again, if I’m never able to teach you another thing, you tie yourself to Relief Society. Relief Society will be your mother.”

Mother knew that if I was sick, the sisters would take care of me, and when I had my babies, they would help me. But my mother’s greatest hope was that the sisters in Relief Society would be powerful, spiritual leaders for me. I began from that time to learn abundantly from women of stature and faith.

Three different women held the calling of Relief Society president in my wards during the years my parents were away. Alta Chamberlain invited me to teach time management and home organization to the other sisters, perhaps because she saw that I needed to improve those skills. Jeanne Horne encouraged me to complete my first serious personal study of the Book of Mormon. Norma Healey gave me my first assignments at the cannery and taught me much about service. These wonderful women understood the purpose of Relief Society.