Gospel Story Finder

When the school bell rang on Friday afternoon, big white snowflakes were falling thick and fast. It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation, and the world looked like a wintry wonderland.
But the activity day girls of the East Mill Creek Fourth Ward in Salt Lake City, Utah, had more to think about than making snowmen or going sledding. They had a mission of love. This afternoon they would be making hats and scarves to keep other children warm on frosty days.
Right after school, the girls bundled up and headed to the church. They stomped the snow off their shoes and took off their coats. Then it was straight to work.
The girls turned the Relief Society room into a busy, colorful workshop. At one table, girls cut cozy fleece and fringed and tied the ends to make scarves.
Other girls sat in a circle and knitted warm hats for children and infants. Using special knitting frames, even the youngest girls became expert hat makers.
At another table, girls made snowy white pom-poms to give the hats a fun finishing touch. Abby C., age 10, also brought a quilt she made at home to donate to the project.
The girls would give all their handiwork to the Humanitarian Center. They were happy to know that somewhere in the world, on another cold winter day, some other children just like them will be warmer.
“This was a great opportunity,” said Olivia V., age 9. “It was our dream to help people.”

I have been a member of the Church for five years. At first I was the only member in my family; my wife was very active in another faith. Now two of my children have been baptized, and my wife and a third child are receiving the missionary discussions. I firmly believe that these blessings have come about because I fasted and prayed and attended the temple. I exhort you to do the same and to have patience. Your desire may be granted when you least expect it.
José Marcos García,Newark (Spanish) Ward, Scotch Plains New Jersey Stake

When I was young, my family moved from Hungary to Germany. I was excited to move there, but it turned out to be the hardest nine years of my life.
I struggled to learn German, and I have always been pretty sensitive, both of which made me a target for bullying. My self-worth really plummeted. Over time I felt like I was unloved and had little hope for the future. I wondered if the world would be better off without me and sometimes even had thoughts of suicide.
But somehow, through all the suffering, I knew I was given my life for a reason, even if I didn’t fully understand why. I knew I could find the Savior’s light even in the darkest times (see Ether 12:4). When the world seemed to be turning against me, I knew where to find Him and what He could do for me if I sought Him through the scriptures, prayer, and doing my best to be His disciple. It truly was living His gospel that gave me any sort of peace and helped me keep going during this terrible time.
Eventually, my family and I moved back to Hungary. I had graduated high school, and although my bullying days were over, I was still lacking self-esteem. The repercussions from being treated so poorly really affected me, and sometimes I still doubted my self-worth.
And as a young adult, I really wanted to be confident in making big life decisions and deciding what I wanted to accomplish in life.
While I was struggling with this, I felt prompted to attend a conference for young single adults in eastern Europe. I needed some spiritual direction in my life to help me deepen my self-worth and prayed to find answers there.
One night at the conference, goosebumps erupted on my arms when the fireside speaker began to talk about how he was bullied as a child. He spoke about how he had once felt worthless and invisible. I immediately started to cry.
He described just what I had experienced.
The speaker continued and shared the truth he had held on to during his challenges—a truth I had lost sight of:
“I am a child of God.”
When the fireside was over, I still had tears streaming down my face. The speaker noticed and came to put his arm around me. He told me that he usually doesn’t come in person to speak at firesides but felt prompted that there was one person who needed to hear his message directly.
I was that person.
This experience showed me how fully aware Heavenly Father is of His children and that He knows exactly how to reach us so we can feel even just a glimmer of His perfect parental love. He knew I needed to hear this speaker’s message and had directed me to be in the right place at the right time.
I have known the phrase, “I am a child of God” my entire life, but the truth of it only fully resonated with my soul right then. I truly realized what it means to be a child of a perfect God who loves us so much that He was willing to sacrifice His own Son so we can live again and be redeemed from our sins. Who loves me so much that while He can’t always protect me from pain, He is with me through it and can help me rise above it, grow from it, and return to Him.
He loves me now, and He loved me infinitely during my years of bullying when I felt that no one else did. I know now that it was because I knew this truth deep down that I chose to keep going.
President Russell M. Nelson recently taught of the power of knowing our divine identity. He said: “My dear friends, you are literally spirit children of God. … But is that eternal truth imprinted upon your heart? …
“Make no mistake about it: Your potential is divine. With your diligent seeking, God will give you glimpses of who you may become.”1
Now when I find myself questioning my worth, I always remind myself of the fact that I’m a child of God and that my life is a gift from Him.
Remember that you are a child of God. And never forget the sustaining, life-changing, and extraordinary spiritual power that comes from embracing that truth.

When I turned 21, I wanted to serve a mission. My great-grandmother, Margarita Sippo de Lallana, supported my decision even though that meant she would be alone. She had reared me since I was small, and I was concerned about who would care for her while I served.
We had been baptized in 1978, when I was 11 and my great-grandmother was 73. We soon quit attending our meetings, but concerned brothers and sisters from the Church came looking for us.
I became active again, and ward members looked forward to my ordination. “We’re going to have a deacon!” they would say excitedly. At that time our ward had no Aaronic Priesthood holders. I became the president of the deacons quorum because there weren’t any other deacons. I wondered why they would give me such a calling, but I came to understand that ward leaders were training me in priesthood responsibilities. As a result, I tried to be faithful.
My grandmother, however, remained less active, attending meetings only occasionally. But she supported my decision to serve because she knew in her heart the gospel is true.
When I turned in my missionary papers in 1990, most full-time missionaries called from Córdoba served in the Argentina Buenos Aires North or South Missions. I was sure I would be called to one of those two missions and not be too far away from my great-grandmother.
Later, when my stake president called, he told me that I needed a passport because I was going to Colombia instead! Despite my ongoing concerns, my great-grandmother encouraged me to go. Just before I left, she promised that she would return to church the very next Sunday and go to the temple before I returned. This was difficult to believe but made it easier for me to leave her.
While I was on my mission, she did exactly what she had promised. Although in her 80s, she not only attended all of her meetings but also arrived on time. And she prepared for and went to the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple.
After a 12-hour, all-night bus ride returning from that first trip to the temple, my great-grandmother arrived at our ward meetinghouse on Sunday morning at 8:30, shortly before Church meetings began. Our stake president, Rúben Spitale, told her, “Let me take you home so you can rest.”
“No,” she replied. “I’m going to church.” And she did.
After I returned from my mission, we attended the temple together three times before she passed away in 2000. Because of my mission, we were both blessed. Had I stayed home, I’m confident none of these blessings would have occurred.

I knew a man once whom I respected very much and who had this quality. On one occasion, a beggar came from out of town and appeared at his door and asked for money. My friend said, “I have an old barn that needs painting. If you want to paint it, I’ll pay you for it.” They went out to look at the barn, and then the man was sent to England’s paint store and arrangements were made for him to pick up the paint he needed.
The barn was painted, and the man was paid and left town. Shortly after, Mr. England called my friend and said that the man had picked up far more paint than was needed to paint the barn. In short, my friend had been taken.
Yet, he took the opportunity to teach his sons a lesson.
“Had I known what he did, I would have stopped him,” he said. “But we have our painted barn, and the painter, whatever his problems, will always know that there was someone willing to believe in him.”

Later, when I became a full-time missionary, I continued to learn from mission presidents. My first president always had a firm belief that things would eventually go well, even when times were tough. From him, I learned to be positive.
My second mission president was a former fighter pilot, but as a Church leader, he was tenderhearted and sensitive, filled with Christlike love for his fellow servants. While I was an assistant to him, I felt that some missionaries were abusing certain privileges and taking advantage of his kindness. I suggested we create stricter rules with stronger enforcement. He said he felt it would be better to trust the missionaries to choose the right rather than doubting their intentions. From this role model, I learned to follow Joseph Smith’s advice to teach correct principles and let people govern themselves.

One who learned well the lesson of obedience was a kind and sincere man of humble means and circumstances. He joined the Church in Europe and, by diligently saving and sacrificing, immigrated to North America, to a new land, a strange language, different customs, but the same Church under the leadership of the same Lord whom he trusted and obeyed. He became the branch president of a little flock of struggling Saints in a somewhat unfriendly city of tens of thousands. He followed the program of the Church, although numbers were few and tasks were many. He set an example for his branch membership that was truly Christlike, and they responded with a love so rarely seen.
He earned a living with his hands as a tradesman.
His means were limited, but he always paid more than a tenth of his total earnings as tithing. He started a missionary fund in his little branch, and for months at a time he was the only contributor. When there were missionaries in his city, he fathered and fed them, and they never left his house without some tangible donation to their work and welfare. Church members from far away who passed through his city and visited his branch always received his hospitality and the warmth of his spirit and went on their way knowing they had met an unusual man, one of the Lord’s obedient servants.
Those who presided over him received his profound respect and his extra-special care. To him they were emissaries of the Lord; their wish was his command. He ministered to their physical comforts and was especially solicitous in his prayers, which were frequent, for their welfare. One Sabbath day, some visiting officials to his branch participated with him in no fewer than a dozen prayers in various meetings and visits to members. They left him at the day’s end with a feeling of exhilaration and spiritual uplift that kept them joyous throughout a four-hour drive in wintry weather and that now, after many years, warms the spirit and quickens the heart in retrospect.
Men of learning, men of experience sought out this humble, unlettered man of God and counted themselves fortunate if they could spend an hour with him. His appearance was ordinary, his English was halting and somewhat difficult to understand, his home was unpretentious. He didn’t own a car or a television; he wrote no books and preached no polished sermons and did none of the things to which the world usually pays attention. Yet the faithful beat a path to his door. Why? Because they wished to drink at his “fountain of truth.” Not so much what he said as what he did; not the substance of the sermons he preached, but the strength of the life he led.
To know that a poor man consistently and cheerfully gave at least twice a tenth to the Lord gave one a clearer insight into the true meaning of tithing. To see him minister to the hungry and take in the stranger made one know that he did it as he would do so to the Master. To pray with him and partake of his confidence of divine intercession was to experience a new medium of communication.
Well could it be said he kept the first and great commandment, and the second which is like unto it, that his bowels were full of charity toward all men, that virtue garnished his thoughts unceasingly, and that, consequently, his confidence waxed strong in the presence of God (see D&C 121:45). This man had the glow of goodness and the radiance of righteousness. His strength came from obedience.

I got my first real job when I was about 13 years old. I was a newspaper delivery boy. I still remember riding my bike around my neighborhood in Salt Lake City every evening, throwing papers onto my neighbors’ front steps. I didn’t make a whole lot of money at it, but each month when I received my wages, there was no question that I would pay tithing. My parents had set the example of paying tithing, and I knew it was a commandment from the Lord (see D&C 119:3–4).
I remember attending tithing settlement as a youngster with my mother and father. It was such a natural thing to me to visit with the bishop and to declare myself a full-tithe payer. Even as I got older and started earning more money, I always paid tithing first.

A more recent convert, Susan, loves the Church. Originally from South Sudan, her family fled hardships and was blessed to receive the missionaries in Uganda. As a refugee, she found peace and protection in the gospel. On Sundays she would bring her younger siblings to church, as well as up to 10 other children who are not Church members. After the unexpected death of a family member, she returned to South Sudan, where she waits for the Church to be established in her area. Both Susan and Sandra face challenges, but they rely on God and enjoy the fruits of living the gospel of Jesus Christ (see Alma 32:6–8, 43).

No one is perfect, but everyone should be striving for perfection. If we should stumble or fall as we travel life’s highway, let us apply the counsel given to us by Cliff Cushman, a member of the 1960 U.S. Olympic team. He won the silver medal in the 400-meter hurdles and was a top candidate for the gold medal in the 1964 Olympics; but in the American trials, he hit and tripped over a hurdle and was eliminated. Messages of sympathy poured in to him, and he replied with an open letter to the youth of his hometown, Grand Forks, North Dakota. He wrote:
“Over 15 years ago, I saw a star—first place in the Olympic Games. I literally started to run after it. In 1960 I came within three yards of grabbing it; this year I stumbled, fell and watched it recede four more years away. …
“In a split second all the many years of training, pain, sweat, blisters and agony of running were simply and irrevocably wiped out.
“But I tried! I would much rather fail knowing I had put forth an honest effort than never to have tried at all. …
“Certainly I was very disappointed in falling flat on my face. However, there is nothing I can do about it now but get up, pick the cinders from my wounds, and take one more step followed by one more and one more, until the steps turn into miles and miles into success.
“I know I may never make it. The odds are against me, but I have something in my favor—desire and faith. … At least I am going to try. How about you? … Unless your reach exceeds your grasp, how can you be sure what you can attain? …
“Let me tell you something about yourselves. … You are spending more money, enjoying more freedom, and driving more cars than ever before, yet many of you are very unhappy. Some of you have never known the satisfaction of doing your best in sports, the joy of excelling in class, the wonderful feeling of completing a job, any job, and looking back on it knowing that you have done your best. …
“I dare you to look up at the stars, not down at the mud, and set your sights on them that, up to now, you thought were unattainable. There is plenty of room at the top, but no room for anyone to sit down.
“Who knows? You may be surprised at what you can achieve with sincere effort. So get up, pick the cinders out of your wounds, and take one more step.
“I dare you!”
The last report I had on Cliff Cushman indicated that he was missing in action in the Vietnam war.

Brother Artel Ricks tells an interesting story of an inspired Primary teacher. Artel was a little boy five or six years old. One night his family sat around the dinner table and talked about tithing. They told him “that tithing is one-tenth of all we earn and that it is paid to the Lord by those who love Him.”
He loved the Lord, and so he wanted to give the Lord his tithing. He went and got his savings and took one-tenth of his small savings. He says: “I … went to the only room in the house with a lock on the door—the bathroom—and there knelt by the bathtub. Holding the three or four coins in my upturned hands, I asked the Lord to accept them. [I was certain He would appear and take them from me.] I pleaded with the Lord for some time, but [nothing happened. Why would He not accept my tithing?]. As I rose from my knees, I felt so unworthy that I could not tell anyone what had happened. …
“A few days later at Primary, the teacher said she felt impressed to talk about something that was not in the lesson. I sat amazed as she then taught us how to pay tithing [to the bishop, the Lord’s servant]. But what I learned was far more important than how to pay tithing. I learned that the Lord had heard and answered my prayer, that He loved me, and that I was important to Him. In later years I came to appreciate still another lesson my Primary teacher had taught me that day—to teach as prompted by the Spirit.
“So tender was the memory of that occasion that for more than thirty years I could not share it. Even today, after sixty years, I still find it difficult to tell about it without tears coming to my eyes. The pity is that a wonderful Primary teacher never knew that through her, the Lord spoke to a small boy” (“Coins for the Lord,” Ensign, Dec. 1990, 47; “An Answer to Prayer,” Tambuli, May 1988, 28).

Sally had a problem. Her sister, Meg, a high school junior, recently placed second in the state gymnastic tournament. Meg looked like a butterfly as she flew through her routine. And fourth-grade, freckle-faced Timmy, Sally’s younger brother, could make a violin sing. His teacher said that Timmy had a great future.
Meg and Timmy had special talents, and Sally didn’t have any. That was her problem.
One day Sally overheard a new neighbor say, “I understand that you have two talented children—one a violinist, the other a gymnast. What does your other child do?”
“I couldn’t get along without Sally,” Mom replied. “She’s a great organizer and my responsible helper.”
Though no one saw her, Sally felt her face burn. So I’m only an organizer, she thought. That’s no special talent. Grandma would often say, “Sally will find herself one of these days. You’ll see.” But Sally didn’t want to wait to see.
However, now that Mom was working, Sally didn’t have much time to worry about being talented. Every day after school she did some of the housework and started dinner. Tim and Meg had either lessons or practice. Sometimes when Sally felt annoyed at them, Mom would say, “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” and some of the hurt would go away. Anyway, Meg and Timmy did have to do the dinner dishes.
At first, Sally had problems with her cooking. Underdone, lumpy potatoes and burned carrots were only two of several disasters. But Mom helped her learn a little each time she cooked dinner.
Now when Dad came home, he said, “What’s cookin’, good lookin’,” and gave Sally a hug. Then she felt loved and happy.
One day toward the end of May, Meg called Sally and Timmy to her room and said, “Father’s Day is next week. Let’s have a party for him. What can we give for a present?”
Sally suggested that they each do something special … maybe have a program. Timmy looked at Sally and asked, “What would you do?”
Sally slumped down and fussed with her fingernails. Then she had an idea—but she wouldn’t tell. She’d surprise everybody. So she shrugged and said, “I’ll think of something.”
“I’ll bet,” Timmy teased.
“Timmy, that’s not nice,” Meg told him. “Just be sure that your violin’s in tune.”
To change the subject, Sally suggested that they invite Grandpa and Grandma.
The next afternoon Sally hurried home and told Mom her plan and asked for her help. Mom thought that Sally’s idea was terrific, and Sally suggested that they get Mrs. Jensen, their next-door neighbor, to help.
For several days Sally spent extra time after school at Mrs. Jensen’s, working on her project. Then, on Father’s Day, she hurried home from church to work on dinner. Meg and Timmy had assumed that the special dinner was Sally’s part of the program, and she just let them think so. It would be fun to surprise them too.
Mom came home from choir practice in time to help with the last-minute preparations. “Dad will be so pleased,” she said.
Dad was indeed pleased as well as surprised. Everything tasted delicious.
When fruit gelatin with whipped cream was served for dessert, Timmy asked, puzzled, “No cake for the party?”
Dad said, “This gelatin is my favorite.”
Grandpa said, “Young lady, I didn’t know that you’d learned how to cook like this.”
“We’ll have to invite you over more often,” Dad told him.
After dinner Meg and Timmy presented their program. Since they had no gymnastic bars, Meg did a floor exercise to music played on the tape recorder.
As soon as Timmy started to play the first of his two violin solos, Sally slipped out and hurried next door. Then Mrs. Jensen walked her home so that Sally wouldn’t stumble with her precious project. Sally re-entered the living room while the family were noisily applauding Timmy’s performance. Sally nodded to Mom, who announced, “Now we would like you to come back into the dining room for Sally’s special treat for Dad and Grandpa.”
“You mean there’s more?” everyone asked.
Indeed there was more! In the middle of the table sat a five-layer cake. Thick chocolate frosting dripped down the sides. Ruffled chocolate edging circled three yellow frosting roses with green leaves on the cream-colored top. Chocolate frosting spelled out, “Happy Father’s Day.”
The family oohed and ahhed as they examined the masterpiece. Then everyone talked at once. Mother stood with her arm around Sally, who grinned so hard that her face hurt.
Timmy asked suspiciously, “Where’d you get that?”
Before Sally could answer, Mom said, “She made it.”
“Mrs. Jensen is a cake decorator,” Sally explained, “and she taught me how.”
Meg said, “Oh, Sally, teach me. Would you, please?”
Grandma said, “If you’re giving classes, may I come too? Your cake is beautiful.”
“Do we get to eat it,” Grandpa asked, “or is it just to look at?”
“I hope not,” Timmy said. “It looks yummy to me!”
Dad looked at Timmy. “I was hoping that you wouldn’t want any. That would leave more pieces for me and Grandpa.”
Meg sighed. “Sally, that’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen!”
Sally, so happy that she couldn’t speak, handed Dad the cake knife.
He laid it on the table, cupped his hands around his mouth and called in a loud voice, “Look out, chefs of the world! Someone is coming to give you a run for your money.”
Grandma smiled and winked at Sally while taking a piece of cake.

The ambulance crew had gone, leaving the house quiet and still. Kierra’s mom and dad sat next to each other on the couch, crying. Six-year-old Kierra didn’t feel like playing, so she sat down next to her parents and cried with them.
“Where’s Baby?” Kierra’s two-year-old sister, Kaleah, asked. “Where’s Baby?”
“Jarom went back to live with Heavenly Father,” Mom replied.
“Where’s Baby?” Kaleah asked again.
“Jarom died, Kaleah,” Kierra said. “He’s not coming home.”
Kaleah didn’t seem to understand. She wandered from room to room, looking for her brother.
Later that evening, Dad sat at the computer typing as tears ran down his face.
“Dad, what are you doing?” Kierra asked as she hugged him.
“I’m writing down my feelings,” he replied. “I hurt so badly it is all I can do.”
“Will you write down my feelings?” Kierra asked.
“Sure,” he said.
Kierra thought for a moment and then spoke the words from her heart. “I love you, Jarom. I wish you were back on earth because I miss you. Sometimes I wish you were bigger—strong and healthy. You were a sweetheart. I loved to kiss and hug you. When I was at school I would always think of you. Sometimes I made Mommy happy by taking care of you. I love how you laughed. I liked your smiles. I want you to be alive again.”
Dad wiped his tears away with his sleeve as he typed Kierra’s words. After she had finished speaking, he continued to stare at the computer screen.
“Kierra,” he said, “Jarom will live again.”
“But he’s dead,” Kierra replied. “How can he live again?”
“Jesus Christ came to the earth, lived a perfect life, and then was killed by people who hated him,” Dad said. “Do you remember what happened three days after He died?”
“He was resurrected,” Kierra answered.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “And because He was resurrected, all of us will live again after we die.”
“But will Jarom be part of our family? I want him to still be my brother.”
“Kierra, because Mommy and Daddy were married for time and all eternity in the temple, our family can be together forever. If we are righteous, someday we will be reunited as a family.”
Kierra missed Jarom so much right now, but she smiled as she thought about being with her brother again.
“I can’t wait to be with him again,” she said.
“Me too,” Dad said. “Me too.”
A few days later, the family gathered at the cemetery as Jarom’s casket was placed in the ground.
“Good-bye, Jarom,” Kierra said. “I can’t wait to see you again.” The sun broke through the clouds, and Kierra smiled. “I thank Thee, Heavenly Father, that families can be forever.”

Imagine waking up to the smell of smoke, the sound of screams and gunshots, the sights of looting and beating. Imagine racially inspired violence so dangerous that schools close and curfews are imposed for days.
This tragic scenario might seem like something you’d see in a movie—the kind your parents and leaders would probably recommend you avoid—but during late April and early May this year LDS youth in the Los Angeles area actually lived it. They saw the rioting. They knew people who looted. They watched familiar buildings burn to the ground.
Yet even while the ashes were still smoldering, the Young Women of the Los Angeles area were busy putting the finishing touches on a long-planned multistake conference that would unite nearly 500 LDS young women of various ethnic backgrounds and affirm that the gospel offers peace to everyone.
The six-hour conference featured an address from Young Women General President Janette Hales. Her message focused on how the fundamentals of personal religious behavior, things like reading the scriptures, praying, and keeping the commandments, can get you through life’s trials and keep you close to Heavenly Father, no matter what is going on in the world around you.
The conference also included 15 workshops covering subjects like dating, preparing for a mission, self-defense, sign language, and baby-sitting. It was just what the doctor ordered for the girls after the tragedy of the weeks before. But the memories for some of the young women were still vivid.
“We went to the store before they burned it to get some food,” said Virginia Smith of the Inglewood Stake. “It was crowded. All of a sudden people were screaming and running to the back. Someone said there were people there with guns. So my mom said to get on the floor, ’cuz if they shoot, they’re not going to shoot down there. Then someone said they went out. The next chance we got, we headed for the door, got in our car, and left.”

The shrill cry of a car’s horn broke into my thoughts. I had been sitting in my car at the stop sign for several minutes crying. I slowly pulled to the side of the road. The car behind me drove by, and I was again by myself as tears blurred my vision.
The process of repentance had never been more real to me. An hour had passed since I had gone to see the bishop. I had cried as I listened to his counsel and came to realize that I had offended the Lord and was not worthy to bless or pass the sacrament or attend the temple.
This scared me. What would the people in the ward think when they did not see me blessing the sacrament? At that moment, it did not really seem to matter. I was ready to fall at the Lord’s feet. Or so I thought.
I crept in the front door more than an hour after I should have been home from the interview. I tried to decide how to tell my parents why I was late. As I sat in the dark, I tried to hold in my tears. Then I felt an arm on my shoulder. I looked through the haze of tears and saw my mom’s gentle eyes. She said, “Have you been gone this entire time?”
“Yes,” I said, as I told her the bishop and I had a lot to talk about. I hid my face.
She wrapped her arm around me in a gentle embrace. “No matter what you have done, your father and I will always love you,” she said.
The tears rained into my hands. She left, and for the first time I think I truly prayed from my heart.
For the next few days, I felt like I could do no wrong. The bishop’s words seemed easy to follow, and the road back didn’t seem hard. But then I started to hang out with my old friends again, and slowly Satan’s wedge began to pry at me. I started to wonder why things were so hard. I was angry with the Lord and questioned why things couldn’t be easier.
I was feeling guilty and haunted by the things I had done, and I wasn’t going to let myself forget them. I started to fall into the same traps again. I thought I had cast my troubles upon the Lord, and He was to take care of the rest. But things didn’t seem any better, and I was ready to give up. I hadn’t realized yet that I had not really thrown myself at the Lord’s feet. I was being stubborn. I was a lost sheep, unwilling to cry for help. I was still trying to free myself from Satan’s snare all alone.
That all began to change a few weeks later when my family and I moved. I was forced to do what I should have done in the first place. I left my old friends and life behind. In my new home no one knew me, and they saw me for what I could be.
As I made new friends with high standards, I tried to convince them that I was a lost cause and that they should give up on me. But they wouldn’t. They showed the same love my parents had shown. Their love finally led me to believe that, someday perhaps, I could love myself too.
I turned to the scriptures and to prayer. I prayed every night with tears in my eyes and with pain in my heart. Often I felt hopeless, but my prayers and my scripture reading uplifted me. Slowly, I began to regain my self-respect. It was a long and difficult process. Along the way I even discovered the joy of writing in a journal, which helped me focus my thoughts and say more sincere prayers.
One night while reading the scriptures, I felt something no words can describe. I found the peace that I had longed for as forgiveness came. The Lord healed my soul. I felt His love wrap around me. I felt free from my sins. I felt forgiven.
Days later I read Doctrine and Covenants 6:22–23: “If you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things.
“Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?”
The feeling of peace I had truly was from the Lord. He left the “ninety and nine” to rescue me (Matt. 18:12).

Christmas of 1977 was not a happy one for me. No family members were close enough to visit, we had almost no money, and we had no pretty decorations to boost my spirits—only a scraggly little Christmas tree strung with colored paper and popcorn chains. If not for the wide-eyed hope of our small children, I probably wouldn’t even have bothered with the tree.
My husband had to drive our car about 45 minutes to get to work, taking with him our only means of transportation. I was stuck at home all day, every day, miles away from anything and everything. The nearest town was a 20-minute drive over insanely twisting mountain roads. The chapel and most of the members of our tiny branch were nearly an hour away.
We had moved to this isolated Appalachian valley in a spasm of youthful idealism and adventurousness. My husband heard of cheap land in Virginia, and before I could say, “Middle of nowhere,” we had moved there. He built us a little house on the side of a mountain, with water piped in from a nearby spring.
We did have neighbors, though they were few and far between. The closest house was an 1801 log cabin, rented for a short while by a young family from our branch, the Andersons (names have been changed). They were poor like we were. Donald, the dad, was working six and sometimes seven days a week. Donald and Ruth had three small children, as we did, and Ruth was in a constant state of exhaustion.
It was a fairly precarious hike from my house to Ruth’s, over a deeply rutted, muddy road. For either of us—with a baby in our arms and two small children in tow—visits were a bit tricky. On one of our rare visits, however, Ruth mentioned to me that they hadn’t been able to get a Christmas tree. Donald left home before dawn and didn’t get back until late evening. Ruth just wasn’t up to traipsing about the countryside in search of a tree.
One evening just before Christmas I was struck with a sudden, passionate urge to find a Christmas tree for the Andersons. Out of nowhere the idea hit me—I just had to get them a tree. As pathetic as my own tree might be, it brought at least a portion of the Christmas spirit into our home.
I spent the rest of the evening making paper chains, popcorn strings, and, of course, a yellow star with glitter for the treetop. In the morning I hiked out onto the mountainside and searched until I found a small tree. I hacked it down and found an old can to decorate and fill with dirt for a base. The end product was more laughable than beautiful, but it looked cheery enough—if you sort of squinted your eyes.
I called to ask Ruth if I could come down, then bundled up my kids and made the hike down the mountain. I somehow managed to balance the tree and the children without major mishap and arrived safely at the cabin door. When Ruth answered my knock, she took one look at my comical little tree and burst into tears. I entered the house very much afraid that my idea had not been such a good one after all.
When Ruth regained her composure, she explained her tears. It was late the evening before when Donald finally arrived home from work. With nearly empty cupboards, the family had piled into the car for the long ride to the store. After a while three-year-old Michael said, “Daddy, can we say a prayer?”
Donald asked Michael if he would like to say it. Then with the simple faith of a child, Michael asked Heavenly Father to help them get a Christmas tree. After saying, “Amen,” Donald and Ruth looked at each other, knowing they would have to try harder to satisfy the longing of their little boy’s heart. They were not able to come up with a plan that night and went to bed more than a little perplexed.
So it was that when we appeared with the little tree, we were an answer to more than one prayer. As soon as the Anderson children caught a glimpse of us, they squealed with joy and made a place of honor for the funny looking tree. There could never have been a Christmas tree more loved.
The miracle of that Christmas, however, was not just the prayer that bounced from a little boy’s heart to heaven and back again to the heart of someone who could help. It was also the healing power I found in the act of giving.
From the moment the thought of finding a tree for the Andersons struck me, the spirit of Christmas began to fill my own heart. I was grateful that the Lord loved me enough to try to get through to me and teach me. And I was reminded anew that it is in losing ourselves that we find ourselves. As we serve, we find that “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds” (Ps. 147:3).

After I had children of my own, I realized how much the Savior loves children. I was tucking my son, Tom, into bed one night. I gave him a hug, and he said, “Dad, do you think that when Jesus comes again, I will be a little boy?”
I said, “Well, we don’t know when He’s going to come, so I don’t know if you will or not. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been thinking about the stories I’ve heard in Primary about how when Jesus was on the earth, He really liked children. He invited the children to come, and He held them. I think I would like that, so I hope I’ll still be a little boy when He comes.”
I gave Tom a hug and said, “I’m really glad that you feel that way about Jesus, Tom, because that’s how I feel about Him, too. And I hope that you don’t have to be a little child for Him to hold you, because I would like that, too.”

I had lunch recently with Elder and Sister John Hess of Ashton, Idaho. “We’re just old potato farmers,” John told me, but that is precisely what the nation of Belarus in the Russia Moscow Mission needed. For years the very best potato yields on government plots of ground there had been 50 sacks of potatoes a hectare. Considering it takes 22 sacks of seed to plant a hectare, the return was poor indeed. They needed help.

Brother Hess asked for ground just three feet away from the government plots, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work with the same seed, tools, and fertilizer available in Belarus. Come harvest time they began to dig, then called on others to dig, then called on everyone to dig. With the same rainfall and soil, but with an extra measure of Idaho industry, experience, and prayer, the plots planted by the Hesses produced a whopping 550 sacks per hectare—11 times better than any prior yield on that land. At first no one would believe the difference. They wondered if secret teams had come in the night or if some wonder drug had been used. But it was none of that. Brother Hess said, “We needed a miracle, so we asked for one.” Now just little more than a year later, in that community young proselyting missionaries are finding much more success just because an “old potato farmer” from Idaho answered the call of his church.

The bunkbed mattress squeaked as Dinis rolled over. He had tossed and turned all night. But he just couldn’t sleep!
What if the missionaries were wrong? Dinis thought. What if this isn’t the true church after all? What if I’m on the wrong path? The questions kept bothering him.
Dinis’s family joined the Church two years earlier, when he was 10. When the missionaries first taught them, Dinis had felt right away that what they taught was true. Dinis and his family were some of the first people to join the Church in Portugal. Dinis was a pioneer!
But lately he had started worrying. What if getting baptized was not the right choice?
Dinis didn’t tell anyone he was worried. Not his brothers or his sister. Not even his parents. But tonight, it was all he could think about.
Dinis sighed. He looked down over the edge of the bed. His brothers were sound asleep on the bottom bunk. Dinis was alone.
He knew he needed to ask God if the Church was true. He knelt in the middle of his bed. He bowed his head and began to pray.
“Please, God,” Dinis said softly. “Let me know if Joseph Smith really saw you and Jesus.”
Dinis had prayed many times before. But this time was different. Dinis really needed to know. He prayed harder than ever for help.
“I don’t want to be wrong,” he whispered. “I just want to know what’s right.”
Then Dinis felt something. The feeling was strong and warm. It grew until he felt it all over his body. He felt like he might explode with joy!
Dinis knew the feeling was the Holy Ghost. God had answered his prayer! The missionaries were right. Joseph Smith really was a prophet. And getting baptized wasn’t just a good choice. It was the best choice.
Dinis lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. His worries were gone. He pulled his blanket close around him. Before he knew it, he was asleep.
As Dinis got older, he always remembered the night when he prayed in his bunkbed. He knew that he was on the right path as a member of Jesus Christ’s Church. And he knew that Heavenly Father would always hear his prayers.

A few years ago my back started hurting. I was kind of worried, so I went to see our family chiropractor. He took some X-rays, saw something weird going on, and recommended me to a specialist.
I was right. There was something wrong. The specialist told me I have a condition called ankylosing spondylitis. It’s a form of arthritis where your spinal joints get inflamed and your spine tries to fuse itself together.
My prescription was to exercise and stretch four or five days a week for about 20 to 30 minutes. If I don’t, my back starts to hurt again. Ankylosing spondylitis can also lead to other serious health problems.
Someday I may have to treat my condition with drugs, but for now, I stretch every day. I also go to the gym several times a week. Recently, I went for a checkup. The doctor told me that because I was diligent with stretching, my spine is in a lot better shape than many people my age.
I’m thankful for my body despite its limitations. I try not to focus on my health problems and just use my body the best I can. A few months ago, I found out that the lead singer of one of my favorite rock bands also has ankylosing spondylitis. Rather than complain, he said a lot of the great things in his life have come from struggling.
I try to remember the fact that Jesus Christ suffered every pain for us. He knows the mental and physical pain of any condition, including ankylosing spondylitis. He is the most equipped to help us, and He has helped me be grateful for my body and its abilities.
Samuel M., 21, Utah, USA