Gospel Story Finder

Some years ago in our ward fast and testimony meeting a young father proudly gave a name and a blessing to his first child. Afterwards the father stood to bear his testimony. He expressed thanks for this, his first son. He then said in a rather perplexed way that since the little fellow didn’t seem to understand anything they said, he wished he knew just how to communicate with him. “All we can do,” said he, “is hold him, cuddle him, gently squeeze him, kiss him, and whisper thoughts of love in his ear.”
After the meeting I went up to the new father and said that in his testimony he had given us a success pattern for raising healthy children. I hoped he would never forget it; even as his children grew to maturity I hoped he would continue the practice.

Juanita and Miguelito live with their parents in a small house in Guatemala. They love each other very much. Each Sunday Juanita and Miguelito go to Primary and learn about the Savior and His teachings.
The Veliz family just moved into a big house close to Juanita and Miguelito’s house. Juanita and Miguelito like to play with the Veliz children. The Veliz children have toys that are bigger and more expensive. Their toys seem to be more fun, too.
One day Juanita and Miguelito were alone in the Veliz’s playroom. Miguelito put a toy racing car he liked to play with in his pocket. “Don’t say anything,” he told Juanita. “They have so many toys. They will never know if I take just one.”
“Miguelito, one of the commandments is ‘Thou shalt not steal’ (Ex. 20:15). Don’t you remember what Sister Campiz said in Primary?” Juanita asked.
“Sister Campiz said when we keep the commandments, we show Heavenly Father that we love Him and are willing to obey Him,” Juanita continued.
Miguelito kept playing. He pretended he didn’t hear his sister. “You choose!” Juanita told him.
After a few minutes, Miguelito took the car out of his pocket and put it with the other toys. He smiled at Juanita.
Before they went to bed that night, Juanita heard Miguelito praying. “Heavenly Father,” he said, “I am thankful to have the commandments to help me choose between right and wrong.”

“OK, Randal,” Mom called to Dad from the kitchen. Dad turned off the dining room lights. When four-year-old Sarah saw my cake with ten flaming candles, she clapped with excitement and squealed.
Mom set the cake in front of me. “Make a wish, Birthday Boy!”
I stared for a moment at the dancing flames and the butterscotch frosting, then at the pile of presents in colorful wrappings. On top was the fanciest present of all, and I was sure that inside was the tiny, portable TV that I wanted. I wasn’t going to take any chances, though, so I shut my eyes tightly as I silently repeated my wish. Then I took a deep breath and blew out the candles.
Mom handed me my presents one by one: new dress pants, new school pants, and a shirt. But she saved the fancy package for last.
My heart thumped excitedly as she handed it to me. It was just the right weight, too, and I wondered if we had enough batteries for it. The ribbon came off with a tug, and I tore open the paper. And there …
There in my hands—I couldn’t believe it—was a block of wood! I stared at it numbly, then looked at Dad.
“It’s mahogany,” he said, looking both serious and happy.
“This present has a special message for you, Randy,” Mom said.
I turned the block over, hoping that one of its sides might have a picture tube and controls on it, but no such luck.
“We’ll give you a couple of clues,” Dad said, “but you’ll have to discover the meaning of the special message yourself.”
Mom started clearing the table as she added, “The first clue is ‘desk.’”
The only desk in our house was my father’s desk in the den, so I took my block of mahogany to the den, still hoping that maybe there would be a television for me there.
But there was no TV there and no notes telling me to look some other place. The desk itself was wood, but that didn’t tell me anything. And the only other wood on the desk were the eagle bookends Dad had carved years ago. Did they mean anything? I had no idea.
I went back into the family room and grabbed the remote control for the television. One of my favorite comedies had already started. As the television screen came to life, I noticed in front of it four narrow rectangular pieces of wood standing in a row, like four letter I’s or four number 1’s. They were old, gray, and cracked.
It had to be the other clue. They knew that I’d see them there. Dad’s always saying that I spend too much time watching television. “You have too much talent, too much potential to waste so much time in front of that TV set. Remember, action unlocks potential!”
“OK, Dad,” I’d tell him. “I’ll just watch my favorites.” The problem was that I had several favorites every day.
When a commercial came on, I took the four old pieces of wood into the kitchen. “These are the other clue, aren’t they?”
Dad smiled. “And what do you think they mean?”
I laid them on the floor, putting one piece horizontally on top of another and putting the bottoms of the other two together to spell TV.
Dad laughed and shook his head. “Randy, what kind of wood is that? Do you know?”
I shrugged.
“It’s pine,” he said. “Remember that tomorrow when we go to Grandma’s.”
The drive to Grandma’s took about a half hour. During the drive I glanced often at the piece of mahogany, wondering why Mom had said that I should bring it. I didn’t think that Grandma would be too excited about seeing a block of wood, even if it was mahogany. And I wondered why Dad had wanted me to remember that those four old pieces of wood were pine.
“Randy, do you remember Grandma’s address?” Dad asked as we got closer to his old neighborhood.
As I thought, I could see in my mind the numbers on her porch—“One-zero-seven-five.”
“One-zero-seven-five what?”
“I don’t remember.”
When we turned onto Grandma’s street, I looked up at the street sign. Pine Street! Maybe, just maybe I’m starting to understand one of the clues.
After we snacked on cookies and I opened my presents from Grandma—a book and a sweatshirt—I asked, “Grandma, is there a house at eleven-eleven Pine Street?”
Grandma grinned. “That’s old Mr. Evangelesi’s house. He’s such a nice man, and he certainly was good to your father when he was growing up. It’s about time you met him, Randy. He’s expecting you.”
I walked down the street until I saw four narrow, weathered strips of wood above a porch: 1111. I mustered all my courage, then rang the doorbell. After a minute the door opened, and on old man with white tufts of hair above his ears looked out. He glanced at the block of wood in my arms, then squinted at me through his glasses.
“You look just like your father,” Mr. Evangelesi said. “A real chip off the old block.” He chuckled and held the door open, then stepped back a couple of steps and motioned for me to come in.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just held up the block of wood. He took it and turned it over, looking at it from different angles. Then he looked at me. “What is this?”
I was proud to know the answer. “It’s mahogany.”
“Yes, yes. Of course it’s mahogany!” he held it in front of me. “But what is it?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Wood. It’s a block of wood.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. Come with me.”
Mr. Evangelesi walked through a doorway and down some wooden stairs, leading me to the basement and into a large workroom. When the light came on, I was amazed at what I saw—shelves filled with beautiful wood carvings. If it hadn’t been for the large worktable and the saws, knives, chisels, and clamps, it would have been easy to think that this was a room in a museum.
I walked slowly around the room, looking at everything: a horse rearing with the wind blowing its mane, a lion stalking its prey, two muscular men wrestling, a beautiful woman praying, a large graceful vase with swirling rings of color in the wood, a twirling ballet dancer, a fish jumping out of the water.
“Go ahead. Pick it up,” Mr. Evangelesi said as I studied a wooden chain.
I was amazed as I picked it up and saw each link attached to its neighbors—all carved from a single piece of wood!
I got more and more excited as I examined a race car, an airplane, a small totem pole, a pirate ship, a flintlock pistol, and the most beautiful baseball bat that I’d ever seen. “Mr. Evangelesi, they’re just awesome! Everything!”
“You know, Randy, you could make things like these.”
“No, not me.”
Mr. Evangelesi smiled kindly. “Your parents think that you can, with a few lessons and the right tools. You know, your father said that he learned some important lessons about life when I taught him how to carve wood.”
I thought about the eagle bookends on Dad’s desk.
“Do you know why I have a basement full of beautiful wood carvings and those old beat-up house numbers outside?”
I shook my head.
“Contrast! Nothing was done to those numbers. They just sat out in the wind and the rain and the sun. And now they look old and ugly. But you know what? Even those four pieces of wood had a beautiful grain once, just like your mahogany here.” He picked up my block of wood. “But nothing was done to bring out the potential of those four pieces.”
He walked across the room, pointing at his carvings. “All these carvings were once like this piece of wood that I’m holding. But after I studied the grain, I began to see what each piece of wood could be. Then I worked until I brought out its potential.” He placed my chunk of mahogany back in my hands. “There’s a work of art inside there,” he said, nodding at the wood, “waiting to get out, waiting to be almost anything that you want and can imagine in there.”
“But you’re an artist, Mr. Evangelesi.”
“Well, thank you, Randy. But I don’t think of myself as much of an artist, I think of myself more as a doer. I have a motto that I’ve always tried to live by: ‘Action unlocks potential.’”
Those words hit me forcibly. Dad had picked up that phrase from Mr. Evangelesi. Until now, they had been just words to me. But now. …
I looked at Mr. Evangelesi and his beautiful carvings. I thought of my Dad and all the good things that he had done and all the good that he was still doing. Then I picked up the block of mahogany and turned it over in my hands. I started to see some of the things that it could become. I saw some of its potential.
Most importantly, I started to see my own potential, to see that by working on myself, instead of sitting around watching television, I could become a person of worth just as by working on my block of wood, it could become an object of worth.

I just want to say how thankful I am for the article “Locket in the Sand” in the February 2003 issue. I am 15 years old and am the only child still living at home, so I get a bit lonely sometimes. One night I was home alone and was feeling very lonely. I picked up the New Era, and it opened to that article. As I was reading, I felt such an overwhelming feeling of peace come over me. It reminded me that I can pray anywhere, at any time, and for any reason. At the time, I needed to be comforted. Now I know that I just have to pray and my Heavenly Father listens to me and lets me know that I am loved.Joanna Milne, Burpengary Ward, Brisbane Australia North Stake

“My attitude toward the law of tithing was set in place by the example and words of my mother, illustrated in a conversation I remember from my youth.

“During World War II, my widowed mother supported her three young children on a schoolteacher’s salary that was meager. When I became conscious that we went without some desirable things because we didn’t have enough money, I asked my mother why she paid so much of her salary as tithing. I have never forgotten her explanation: ‘Dallin, there might be some people who can get along without paying tithing, but we can’t. The Lord has chosen to take your father and leave me to raise you children. I cannot do that without the blessings of the Lord, and I obtain those blessings by paying an honest tithing. When I pay my tithing, I have the Lord’s promise that he will bless us, and we must have those blessings if we are to get along.’”2

When I was fifteen years old, my mother suggested that I get a patriarchal blessing. Although I hadn’t thought of doing so, her suggestion felt right, and preparations were made. I don’t remember the interview with my bishop or making the appointment, but I do remember an increasing sense of reluctance as the day approached.

My anxiety was all about my future. I had heard story after story of remarkable blessings with unusual promises. Some days I felt extraordinary—as if there were special things ahead for me. But usually I felt ordinary—even invisible some days. What if I didn’t have anything in my future? Better not to know. Maybe there wouldn’t be anything for the patriarch to say, and the blessing would only be one or two sentences long. I wondered if I would go on a mission—would I marry—would there be children—how many?

As you can see, I didn’t really understand the difference between a patriarchal blessing and a Chinese fortune cookie. But I did understand one important difference: I didn’t believe in messages in cookies, but I did believe in patriarchal blessings.

I was prepared to believe anything that was said, or not said.

The anticipated day arrived. I went with my parents to the patriarch’s cozy little study. As he placed his hands on my head, there was a steadiness that vaporized all uncertainty. I remember the surprise and wonder of that day, but also of every other time I have read that blessing—the startling news: He knows me. Heavenly Father knows me! And he has a plan for my future. I don’t need to know all the details, but if I do my part, it will turn out wonderfully well.

Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ live, and they are in charge of this world.
They know me.
They love me.
They have a plan for my future.
I will obey the commandments, work hard, and trust in that plan. Sooner or later, everything will be okay.

Like all new members, Jana Riess has found learning about the Church to be a “line upon line” experience (see Isaiah 28:10). She was preparing to become a Presbyterian minister in 1991 when she began listening to the missionary lessons. To express her appreciation, one Sunday she invited the sister missionaries to join her for lunch at a restaurant. They kindly explained that they would prefer not to eat out on the Sabbath. Fifteen years and many Church callings later, Sister Riess still sees her own conversion as ongoing. “Discipleship is a lifelong process that doesn’t end when someone rises from the waters of baptism,” she says. “I’m still ‘converting.’”
Looking back, Sister Riess counts among her greatest blessings as a new Church member those who reached out to her and took an interest in her spiritual development. Today she prizes the blessing of being able to help other converts along the path of discipleship by talking to them about their concerns, praying for and with them, and passing along helpful materials to read. She knows that the transition is often more painful and costly than many people realize. So, while her current official Church calling is Primary chorister, she also considers it a personal calling to reach out to other converts and help them become more committed disciples of Christ through the Church’s teachings and programs.

The exodus from Nauvoo in September of 1846 caused unimaginable hardship for the faithful Latter-day Saints. Many sought shelter in camps along the Mississippi River. When word reached Brigham Young at Winter Quarters about the condition of these refugees, he immediately sent a letter across the river to Council Point encouraging the brethren to help—reminding them of the covenant made in the Nauvoo Temple. He counseled: “Now is the time for labor. Let the fire of the covenant which you made in the House of the Lord, burn in your hearts, like flame unquenchable” (in Journal History of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Sept. 28, 1846, 5). Within days, wagons were rolling eastward to rescue the struggling Saints.
What was it that gave those early Saints such strength? It was the fire of the temple covenant that burned in their hearts. It was their commitment to worship and honorably hold a name and standing in the house of the Lord.

A visitor once asked me, “What is there to see while I am in Salt Lake City?” Instinctively I suggested a tour of Temple Square, a drive to the nearby canyons, a visit to the Bingham copper mine, and perhaps a swim in the Great Salt Lake. A fear of being misunderstood kept me from expressing the thought, “Have you considered spending an hour or two at one of our cemeteries?” I never did reveal to him that wherever I travel I try to pay a visit to the town cemetery. It is a time of contemplation, of reflection on the meaning of life and the inevitability of death.
In the small cemetery in the town of Santa Clara, Utah, I remember the preponderance of Swiss names which adorn the weathered tombstones. Many of those persons left home and family in verdant Switzerland and, in response to the call “Come to Zion,” settled the communities where they now “rest in peace.” They endured spring floods, summer droughts, scant harvests, and backbreaking labors. They left a legacy of sacrifice.
The largest cemeteries, and in many respects those which evoke the most tender emotions, are honored as the resting places of men who died in the cauldron of conflict known as war while wearing the uniform of their country. One reflects on shattered dreams, unfulfilled hopes, grief-filled hearts, and lives cut short by the sharp scythe of war.
Acres of neat white crosses in the cities of France and Belgium accentuate the terrible toll of World War I. Verdun, France, is in reality a gigantic cemetery. Each spring as farmers till the earth, they uncover a helmet here, a gun barrel there—grim reminders of the millions of men who literally soaked the soil with the blood of their lives.
A tour of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and other battlefields of the American Civil War marks that conflict where brother fought against brother. Some families lost farms, others possessions. One family lost all. Let me share with you that memorable letter which President Abraham Lincoln wrote to Mrs. Lydia Bixby:
“Dear Madam:
“I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.
“Yours very sincerely and respectfully,“Abraham Lincoln.”
A walk through Punchbowl Cemetery in Honolulu or the Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific at Manila reminds one that not all who died in World War II are buried in quiet fields of green. Many slipped beneath the waves of the oceans on which they sailed and on which they died.
Among the thousands of servicemen killed in the attack on Pearl Harbor was a sailor by the name of William Ball, from Fredericksburg, Iowa. What distinguished him from so many others who died on that day in 1941 was not any special act of heroism, but the tragic chain of events his death set in motion at home.
When William’s boyhood buddies, the five Sullivan brothers from the nearby town of Waterloo, received word of his death, they marched out together to enlist in the navy. The Sullivans, who wished to avenge their friend, insisted that they remain together, and the navy granted their wish. On November 14, 1942, the cruiser on which the brothers served, the USS Juneau, was hit and sunk in a battle off Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands.
Almost two months went by before Mrs. Thomas Sullivan received the news, which arrived not by the usual telegram but by special envoy: all five of her sons were reported missing in action in the South Pacific and presumed dead. Their bodies were never recovered.
One sentence only, spoken by one person only, provides a fitting epitaph: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
Frequently the profound influence one life has on the lives of others is never spoken and occasionally little known. Such was the experience of a teacher of girls, even 12-year-olds in the Beehive class of Mutual. She had no children of her own, though she and her husband dearly longed for children. Her love was expressed through the devotion to her special girls as she taught them eternal truths and lessons of life. Then came illness, followed by death. She was but 27.
Each year on Memorial Day, her girls made a pilgrimage of prayer to the graveside of their teacher. First there were seven, then four, then two, and eventually just one, who continued the annual visit, always placing on the grave a bouquet of irises—a symbol of heartfelt gratitude. That last girl later became a teacher of girls. Little wonder she is so successful. She mirrors the reflection of the teacher from whom came her inspiration. The life that teacher lived, the lessons that teacher taught, are not buried beneath the headstone which marks her grave but live on in the personalities she helped to shape and the lives she so selflessly enriched. One is reminded of another master teacher, even the Lord. Once, with His finger, He wrote in the sand a message. The winds of time erased forever the words He wrote but not the life He lived.
“All that we can know about those we have loved and lost,” wrote Thornton Wilder, “is that they would wish us to remember them with a more intensified realization of their reality. … The highest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude.”
Some years ago, in beautiful Heber Valley just east of Salt Lake City, a loving mother and devoted father returned to that personal haven called home to discover that their three eldest sons lay dead. The night was bitter cold, and the fierce wind swept the falling snow, which covered the chimney, trapping deadly carbon monoxide fumes throughout the house.
The joint funeral service for the Keller boys was one of the most touching experiences of my life. The residents of the community had placed aside their daily tasks, children were excused from school, and all thronged to the chapel to express their deep feelings of condolence. So long as time and memory endure, I shall remember the scene of three shiny caskets, followed by grief-stricken parents and grandparents making their way to the front of the building.
The first speaker was the wrestling coach of the local high school. He paid tribute to Louis, the oldest boy. With an emotion-filled voice and choking back the tears, he told how Louis was not necessarily the most gifted wrestler on the team but added, “No one tried harder. What he lacked in athletic skill he made up with a determined heart.”
Then a youth leader spoke of Travis. He told how Travis had excelled in Scouting, in Aaronic Priesthood work, and was such a sterling example to his friends.
Finally, a distinguished appearing and obviously competent elementary school teacher told of Jason, the youngest of the three. She described him as quiet, even shy. Then, without embarrassment, she told how Jason had, in the scrawled penmanship of a boy, sent to her the sweetest and most welcome letter she had ever received. Its message was brief—just three words: “I love you.” She could barely complete her talk, so deep-felt were her emotions.
Through the tears and the sorrow of that special day, I observed eternal lessons that had been taught by those boys whose lives were honored and whose mortal missions concluded.
A coach expressed the determination to look beyond athletic prowess and into the heart of each boy. A youth leader made a solemn vow that every boy and girl would have the benefit which the program of the Church provided. An elementary school teacher looked at the small children, classmates of Jason. She said nothing, but her eyes revealed the determination of her soul. The message was unmistakably clear: “I will love each child. Each boy, each girl will be guided in the search for truth, in the development of talent, and be introduced to the wonderful world of service.”
And the audience could never again be the same. All will strive toward that perfection spoken of by the Master. Our inspiration? The lives of the boys who now rest from care and sorrow, and the fortitude of parents who trust in the Lord with all their hearts, who lean not to their own understanding, and who in all their ways acknowledge Him, knowing that He will direct their paths.
Let me share with you a portion of a letter sent to me by the noble mother of these three sons. It was written soon after their passing.
“We do have days and nights that right now seem so overwhelming. The change in our home life has been so drastic. With almost half our family gone now, the cooking, washing, and even shopping are different. We miss the noise and clutter, the teasing and playing together. Such are gone. Sunday is so quiet. We miss seeing the sacrament blessed and passed by our sons. Sunday was truly our family together day. We ponder the thought: no missions, no weddings, no grandchildren. We would not ask for their return, but we could not say we would ever have willingly given them up. We have returned to our Church duties and our family responsibilities. Our desire is to so live that the Keller family will be a forever family.”
To the Kellers, the Sullivans, and indeed to all who have loved and lost, let me share with you the conviction of my soul, the testimony of my heart, and the actual experiences of my life.
We know each one lived in the spirit world with Heavenly Father. We understand we have come to earth to learn, to live, to progress in our eternal journey toward perfection. Some remain on earth but for a moment, while others live long upon the land. The measure is not how long we live but rather how well we live. Then come death and the beginning of a new chapter of life. Where does that chapter lead?
Many years ago I stood by the bedside of a young man, the father of two children, as he hovered between life and the great beyond. He took my hand in his, looked into my eyes, and pleadingly asked, “Bishop, I know I am about to die. Tell me what happens to my spirit when I die.”
I prayed for heavenly guidance before attempting to respond. My attention was directed to the Book of Mormon, which rested on the table beside his bed. I held the book in my hand, and it providentially opened to the 40th chapter of Alma. I began to read aloud:
“Now my son, here is somewhat more I would say unto thee; for I perceive that thy mind is worried concerning the resurrection of the dead. …
“Now, concerning the state of the soul between death and the resurrection—Behold, it has been made known unto me by an angel, that the spirits of all men, as soon as they are departed from this mortal body, … are taken home to that God who gave them life.
“And then shall it come to pass, that the spirits of those who are righteous are received into a state of happiness, which is called paradise, a state of rest, a state of peace, where they shall rest from all their troubles and from all care, and sorrow.”
My young friend closed his eyes, expressed a sincere thank-you, and silently slipped away to that paradise about which we had spoken.
Then comes that glorious day of resurrection, when spirit and body will be reunited, never again to be separated. “I am the resurrection, and the life,” said the Christ to the grieving Martha. “He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live:
“And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”
“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
“In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. … That where I am, there ye may be also.”
This transcendent promise became a reality when Mary and the other Mary approached the garden tomb—that cemetery which had but one occupant. Let Luke, the physician, describe their experience:
“Now upon the first day of the week, very early in the morning, they came unto the sepulchre. …
“And they found the stone rolled away. …
“… They entered in, and found not the body of the Lord Jesus.
“… As they were much perplexed thereabout, behold, two men stood by them in shining garments:
“And … said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead?”
“He is not here: for he is risen.”
This is the clarion call of Christendom. The reality of the Resurrection provides to one and all the peace that surpasses understanding. It comforts those whose loved ones lie in Flanders fields or who perished in the depths of the sea or rest in tiny Santa Clara or peaceful Heber Valley. It is a universal truth.
As the least of His disciples, I declare my personal witness that death has been conquered, victory over the tomb has been won. May the words made sacred by Him who fulfilled them become actual knowledge to all. Remember them. Cherish them. Honor them. He is risen.

Latter-day Saints in Memphis, Tennessee, are working with the NAACP to help mothers and babies and reduce infant mortality rates.

In Tennessee, USA, some Latter-day Saints have joined with brothers and sisters of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) to help mothers and their babies thrive in an area that has one of the United States’ highest infant mortality rates. This effort is helping carry out the vision President Russell M. Nelson outlined in 2021 of the two organizations coming together in community service.8

In November 2022, four members of the Dudley family from the Memphis Tennessee Stake gathered with several dozen people at the NAACP Memphis Branch to pass out fliers about a program of classes designed to help new and expectant mothers better care for their children.

“We had the opportunity to knock on the door of a woman that is pregnant right now,” said Marc Allan Dudley, who distributed fliers with his wife, Sonya, and two of their daughters. “Her eyes kind of lit up, and she was thankful for the program. … People are happy that somebody notices that there’s an issue and that there’s somebody doing something about it.”

“This partnership is God ordained and God inspired,” added NAACP Memphis Branch president Van Turner. “I’m just so happy that it’s happening at such a critical time in our city. We’re dealing with public safety, we’re dealing with homelessness, we’re dealing with poverty. [It’s critical to address] the origin of humanity, when these young people are in the womb, and try to make sure they get the proper care while in the womb [and then] come out and survive and be healthy. Once that happens, they have a great start in life.”9

“When I tracked my phone usage, I realized that I was on my phone the most on Sunday. I thought that was sad because that’s when I should be trying to get closer to my Savior—but instead, I had been staring at my screen.
“As I started reading my scriptures, I would read the 10 minutes every night before I went to bed, which for me was just about a chapter a night. As I did this, I noticed that I was able to fall asleep much easier. I also found myself making better decisions throughout the week, and I overall just felt better about myself.
“I am grateful that I was able to receive this invitation, and I plan to continue to read for 10 minutes a day and say my nightly prayers.”
Ryan E., 16, Alabama, USA

In this conference just a year ago, President Thomas S. Monson shared an example of sacrifice in connection with temple service. A faithful Latter-day Saint father on a remote island in the Pacific did heavy physical work in a faraway place for six years to earn the money necessary to take his wife and 10 children for marriage and sealing for eternity in the New Zealand Temple. President Monson explained, “Those who understand the eternal blessings which come from the temple know that no sacrifice is too great, no price too heavy, no struggle too difficult in order to receive those blessings.”9

Luke’s senior year was anything but normal.
After starting his senior year at the same Mississippi high school he’d been attending since he was a freshman, and with the same friends he’d known since age nine, Luke’s family moved to Alabama.
“I wasn’t too excited about the move,” Luke N., 18, admits. But he still tried to make the most of it. For one thing, he joined the tennis team at his new school.
And then he got to play all of one match before his whole world turned upside down.
Tennis? Canceled. Prom? Double canceled. Attending church? Attending school? Attending seminary?
You guessed it. All canceled.
Like the rest of the globe, Luke’s daily routine shifted gears in a massive way once the COVID-19 pandemic interfered with just about every area of his life.
“It’s definitely been disappointing,” he says. For Luke, the biggest heartache of all was not knowing for sure what’s going to happen with his mission call.
It’d be understandable for anybody in Luke’s situation to feel discouraged, but he says he finds heavenly help every day. “I see a lot of blessings in disguise.”

As our children’s awareness began to grow beyond the protective walls of our own home, Christmas became more and more Santa and glitter. As this excitement and anticipation grew, the birth of our Savior seemed farther and farther from our hearts and minds. My husband, Bob, and I tried to bring the true spirit of Christmas back into our celebration in ways that would be meaningful to the entire family. One year we established a pattern of traditions that has served us well and provided meaningful Christmases for many years.
We chose a family home evening lesson for the first week in December that focused on giving service as a way to celebrate the Christmas season. We made a cardboard manger and provided a container full of straw. Each time a family member performed an act of service, we put one piece of straw into the manger. The children eagerly sought meaningful acts of kindness with which to earn a straw for baby Jesus’s manger, and we filled the manger three times over that year.
Bob happened to spot an old-fashioned lantern in a store’s display of Christmas decorations. He bought it, and it provided the inspiration for the culminating event of our religious celebration. After our family party and dinner on Christmas Eve, the children dressed for bed and gathered in the largest bedroom upstairs, away from the nativity scene in the living room. We turned off all the lights in the house and explained to the children that we would be taking a pilgrimage to see the newborn King of kings. We prepared for our journey by singing traditional carols and then proceeded to the living room, singing “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful.” Bob led the way, holding the lantern with its flickering candlelight to brighten our path.
Upon reaching the little stable, we sat quietly and sang a few more carols. Then we presented the manger to baby Jesus. It was filled with straw representing gifts of love we had given throughout the month. Everyone who wanted to do so expressed his or her love for the Savior. The Spirit of the Lord was in our home and our hearts that evening. The children went calmly and quietly to bed—still eager for the morning to come, but also feeling love and appreciation for the Christ child, whose birth we were celebrating.
Each year, as we get caught up in the frantic preparations for Christmas, we have a sense of peace, knowing that the commercialism will be tempered, at least to a degree, with a few moments of meaningful worship. Even at the height of anticipating Christmas morning, the children look forward to the special time we spend each Christmas Eve with the newborn King.

I was one of three young LDS girls who traveled with a touring party of seventy in October of 1972. We went to New York, California, and Utah. We visited many, many lovely people. Temple Square is so beautiful, even better than on postcards. Other members of the group were envious of us because we knew so much about the salvation of man and never worried at depressing moments. A few of them were good listeners and even abstained from their unclean habits. We earned their respect, and I know that these people will never forget the experiences we had in Utah. I felt so proud to be a Latter-day Saint and still do.

Now that I am home, I find that my testimony has been strengthened. It was a good experience being in the Promised Land, knowing that there are people on the other side who live the way I do. I only hope that I will be able to return one day.
Pauline RuruHawkes Bay, New Zealand

One of the defining moments in my life happened for me at the age of 10 when I spent two weeks learning Catholic doctrine at the Loreto Roman Catholic Mission, about 20 miles (32 km) away from my rural home in Silobela, Zimbabwe. I have come to know and love the Savior Jesus Christ and to look up to the Lord through these early lessons and impressions.
While I was in the Catholic chapel, I saw paintings with scenes from the Savior’s life pasted on the wall: scenes of Jesus Christ’s birth, teaching in the temple, praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, carrying the cross to Calvary, being crucified at Golgotha, and His Resurrection. It really made me feel sad to see those nails and thorns. By the time I got to the painting of the Crucifixion, my eyes were filled with tears. And each time I would cry and say, “Hey, He really went through a lot, just for me.”
During the confirmation ceremony, one of the priests looked into my eyes and said, “You are the light of the world” (see Matthew 5:14). Then, pointing to a burning candle, he quoted the Savior’s words: “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matthew 5:16).
As I learned more about Jesus, I began to want to be of service to others. For example, we would have to fetch our water five miles (8 km) away from our village. Often, women in the village, including my mother, would carry a 20-liter container on their heads filled with water. After my experience at the Catholic seminary, I often pushed a 200-liter (about 50 gallons) container of water to help my mother, and I also helped two other widows who were our neighbors. I remembered the good feeling I felt each time I helped others.
These experiences helped develop my faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and indirectly prepared me to accept the gospel of Jesus Christ when I was 22 years old.

I carried my patriarchal blessing with me during service in the United States Navy in World War II. I had grown up in Taylorsville, Utah, sheltered and shy, the product of a tranquil pioneer community. I now entered a harsher life, where oaths and profanity were common, where some men made bragging about sexual exploits part of their daily ritual. But again, my patriarchal blessing served as a beacon. Its promises gave me hope that I could stay clean, that I could survive the conflict and live to serve in our Heavenly Father’s kingdom.

Like Jim, as a young man I was privileged to have “goodly parents” (1 Ne. 1:1). They taught gospel principles and values to our family by precept and example. As a young boy I thought I had a testimony. I believed! Then came some personal spiritual experiences through faith, prayer, scripture study, and especially father’s blessings in our home that caused me to think more seriously about the principles I had been taught and believed—but even more deeply about what I was beginning to feel. I will be forever grateful to parents who helped coach me through those precious spiritual experiences. They have had a lasting impact on me and on the strength of my testimony.

Once there was a bird whose feathers were beautiful. He sang lovely songs and flew very fast. He was proud of all he could do, and he thought no one was better than he.
One day a flea heard the bird singing. “Oh, I’m the best, the very, very best, the very best creature in the forest.”
“Are you sure?” asked the flea.
“What?” questioned the bird.
“Are you sure that you’re the very best creature in the forest?” the flea asked again.
“Of course,” answered the bird, as he looked all around. “Who’s talking to me, anyway? I can’t even see you.”
“Down here,” replied the flea.
Then the bird saw the flea and laughed. “Why you’re no bigger than a flea!” he snorted.
“That’s because I am a flea!” shouted the flea.
“What do you want?” asked the bird.
“I know that you’re more beautiful than I am,” the flea responded. “And I know that you can sing better than I can. But I wonder if you’re really faster than I am. Let’s have a race.”
“A race?” repeated the bird, hardly believing what he had heard. “You must be addled! I’m sure I’ll win.”
“Maybe,” said the flea. “Let’s try it anyway.”
“All right,” agreed the bird. “Where will we race to?”
“The pond on the other side of the forest,” the flea suggested, for the flea knew that the bird often went there to admire himself.
“Fine,” said the bird. “But who will start us off?”
“I will,” croaked a toad that was sitting nearby. “I will count to three, then you can go.”
The bird and the flea got ready …
“One, two, three!” cried the toad.
Just an instant before the bird took flight, the flea hopped onto the bird’s back and snuggled down among its feathers. But because the flea weighed so little, the bird did not feel it as they flew high over the trees. The flea was enjoying the ride. It had never been up so high. The flea was pleased that it had been so easy to hop on the bird. Just then they saw a big tree loaded with fruit.
That flea is so slow, the bird thought, it will take it all day to get to the pond. I have time to stop for a few minutes. Down flew the bird to the tree and ate and ate until he was full. Becoming sleepy, the bird’s eyes closed.
Nuts! worried the flea. I don’t want to sit here all day. Maybe the bird will forget about the race and never go to the pond. I must get there myself.
The flea jumped off the bird and scuttled down the tree. Hopping along through the forest, he became tired. “Oh, dear,” he sighed. “The pond is still far away. I should have stayed on the bird—he might wake up anytime.” Then the flea heard a dog barking. It was chasing a rabbit, and they were running toward the pond. “Aha!” cried the flea. “This is just what I need.”
First the rabbit sped past. Then, unnoticed by the dog as it ran by, the flea jumped onto its back. Away they went through the forest.
Good! thought the flea. I’ll beat that bird yet.
The dog ran on and on until it was quite close to the pond. Then suddenly it tripped on a stick and rolled over and over. The flea fell off, and before it could jump back onto the dog, the animal had run away.
“Oh, dear!” wailed the flea. “Why did I ever hop off the bird?” He looked up and could see the bird high in the sky.
Suddenly the flea saw a cat. This was its last chance. “Hello, cat,” said the flea. “I hope you can help me.”
“Oh?” replied the cat. “Why should I help you? I don’t like fleas.”
The flea told the cat about the race. “I see,” said the cat. “I’d like to teach that bird a lesson or two myself. Hop onto my back. I’ll take you to the pond.”
“Hurry!” urged the flea. “We want to surprise the bird.”
Soon they came to the pond where the toad was waiting. It was surprised to see the flea first. “Where is the bird?” asked the toad.
“He should be here soon,” replied the flea, hopping to the top of a tall bush.
“Here he comes,” said the cat. The bird flew down to the pond.
“I won!” declared the flea.
The bird did not know what to say. “How could you—” he began.
Suddenly the cat jumped … but not fast enough. Just in time the bird got away. The flea had won, and the cat had taken his beautiful tail feathers. The cat went away without supper.
“Come down from that bush,” the toad said to the flea. “I can’t see you very well.”
“No, I’ll tell you my story from here,” said the wise little flea, not to be tricked by the toad. And the toad hopped away without any supper either.

The man who became one of the Urdu translators was converted to the Church in Pakistan while working as a teacher. As a result of his conversion, he lost his job; he lost his house, which was provided by the school where he taught; and he lost the schooling for his children. A Church translation supervisor approached him about serving as a translator and offered him a modest recompense. After working as a translator for a few months, the man visited with the supervisor and timidly asked if the supervisor would buy him a new ballpoint pen. The one he had been using had run out of ink. Only then did the supervisor discover and fix a clerical error that had resulted in the translator receiving much less than what he should have been paid.