Gospel Story Finder

Too many blind members find that their opportunities to serve are limited because of others’ attitudes. Clair Todd, a sister from Norwich, England, who now lives in Homestead, Florida, says, “In some wards—fortunately not my current one—I have not been considered for Church callings because I am blind. These were callings that I could have done without difficulty! In one instance, the bishop was inspired to call me as Young Adult representative, but he kept rejecting the prompting with, ‘But Heavenly Father, she can’t do it!’ Again and again the prompting came, and finally the bishop approached me. Of course I was able to do it!”

During the week, I studied the scriptures for seminary before I did my school work. When I was too tired to do my homework or was having challenges at school, I opened my seminary manual, studied, and prayed. I found that when I did that, I could refresh my mind and focus better on my homework. I still apply this in my life. Today, whenever I have a hard time, I still read my scriptures or general conference talks to refresh my mind.

The third temple to be topped with an angel Moroni statue was the Washington D.C. Temple, dedicated in 1974. Avard Fairbanks sculpted a graceful angel holding a trumpet to his lips and a replica of the gold plates in his left arm. Brother Fairbanks’s one-meter model was taken to Italy, enlarged, cast in bronze, and covered with gold leaf.

When the clay enlargement was finished, Brother Fairbanks invited the temple architects to Italy to see it. One of the architects, Keith W. Wilcox (who later became a member of the Seventy), mentioned that the angel looked as though he were drinking from the horn rather than blowing it. Brother Wilcox demonstrated how a trombone player “buzzes” with his or her lips to make a tone. With Brother Wilcox posing, Brother Fairbanks changed the angel’s mouth.7

Recently a man told how he became lost in the middle of a ward with 500 members: “My wife and I had our first contact with the Church when two sweet, spiritual missionaries called. They came, they taught, they converted. We literally lived off their spirit. Like many converts know, the first thing after you are baptized, those two wonderful elders are transferred.

“It was extremely difficult for us to keep that same spirit. We felt we could not go it alone. We withdrew from Church activity. My wife told the visiting teachers not to come back, and the home teachers were asked to leave us alone.

“I suppose in the elders quorum one morning they discussed some ‘lost’ brethren who needed to be ‘found.’ Yes, I was lost. One day there came a knock at our front door. As I opened it, I saw a young, smiling, freckled-faced man who said he was the elders quorum president and asked if he could talk to me for a few minutes.

“In the coming weeks he came many times to bring us vegetables from his garden, eggs from his chickens, a birthday card for our daughter. Sometimes he came just to talk. He got me involved in the sports program. He even apologized for anyone who may have hurt our feelings. What did he do that got us back? He loved us. He was sincere. He cared. He gave me his personal testimony. He helped me to search my soul. He helped me to pray to my Father in heaven.

“For the love this man gave my family, we will be eternally grateful. The Lord has poured out his blessings on us. We have been to the temple of the Lord and sealed for eternity. We have returned to the temple many times and gained further light and knowledge promised to us.

“I am now working with this elders quorum president as his counselor. My wife is teaching Primary and is a visiting teacher. I was lost, but because someone cared, someone took time, someone took the risk of showing his love and concern, I was found and was able to lead my family back to the Lord.” He went on to say, “I plead with all members of the Church to look around and help guide lost children back to their Heavenly Father.”

When I was a boy, childhood diseases appeared regularly in every community. When someone had chicken pox or measles or mumps, the health officer would visit the home and place a quarantine sign on the porch or in the window to warn everyone to stay away. In a large family like ours, those diseases would visit by relay, one child getting it from another, so the sign might stay up for weeks.
We could not blockade ourselves inside our homes or stay hidden away to avoid those terrible contagions. We had to go to school, to employment, to church—to life!
Two of my sisters were stricken with very severe cases of measles. At first they seemed to recover. A few weeks later, Mother glanced out of the window and saw Adele, the younger of the two, leaning against a swing. She was faint and weak with a fever. It was rheumatic fever! It came as a complication from measles. The other sister also had the fever.
There was little that could be done. In spite of all of the prayers of my parents, Adele died. She was eight years old.
While Nona, two years older, recovered, she had fragile health for most of her life.
Nona recovered from measles and rheumatic fever. She lived long enough to benefit from open-heart surgery and enjoyed years of much improved health. Others spoke of her newly acquired energy. She said, “I have a Cadillac engine in a Model T frame.”
As an innocent child, my sister Adele’s life was cruelly interrupted by disease and suffering. She and all the others so taken continue the work of the Lord beyond the veil. She will not be denied anything essential for her eternal progression.

Many years ago I was in a professional association with two older, more experienced men. We had been friends for many years and found it mutually beneficial to help one another. One day, one associate sought our help on a complex matter. As soon as the issue had been explained, the first thing the other associate said was, “What’s in it for me?” When his old friend responded so selfishly, I saw the look of pain and disappointment on the face of the one who had invited our help. The relationship between the two was never quite the same after that. Our self-serving friend did not prosper, as his selfishness soon eclipsed his considerable gifts, talents, and qualities. Unfortunately, one of the curses of the world today is encapsulated in this selfish response: “What’s in it for me?”

President Uchtdorf has special feelings of fondness for the late Elder Theodore M. Burton (1907–89), who served as president of the West German Mission. At a time when many good German Latter-day Saints were leaving their homeland, the Uchtdorf family heeded Elder Burton’s counsel to stay in Germany and build up the Church there. It was Elder Burton who ordained Dieter F. Uchtdorf to the office of elder and gave memorable instruction that Dieter heeded precisely. Sister Harriet Uchtdorf understood the importance of Elder Burton’s counsel for the Uchtdorf family to remain in Europe to strengthen the Church there. It became an imperative for them. Their children have adhered to that same counsel. Now, in jest, the children chide their parents for leaving for the United States, while they have remained in Europe.

On vacations, Father would take us to historical sites that were prominent in Church history to build our knowledge and testimonies.
On one occasion, when I was a twelve-year-old deacon, Father asked if I would like to go to the baseball hall of fame in Cooperstown, New York, and to the Hill Cumorah Pageant near Palmyra, New York. This is where Joseph Smith was led to the golden plates which were later translated into the Book of Mormon. Father also took me to the Sacred Grove, where Joseph Smith had prayed to Heavenly Father and was visited in a vision by God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. We prayed together in the grove and expressed our desire to be true and faithful to the priesthood which we held. Father later painted a picture of the place where we had prayed and gave it to me as a reminder of our promises made that day together. It hangs in my office today and serves as a reminder each day of my sacred experience and promises made with my earthly father as well as my Heavenly Father.

The day seemed long to Tom as he impatiently herded the pigs toward the shed near the stables. When he had been made swineherd he was happy because he felt he was growing up, but he soon discovered that it was often lonely work.
At first he enjoyed beautiful daydreams about becoming a knight and performing great deeds that would make him a hero. But he had grown tired of dreams he knew could never come true.
He was a serf just as his father had been at his death. Tom belonged to the land of the rectory in the village of Lutterworth where he would remain until he died unless his owner freed him.
The warmth of the stable felt good as Tom opened the door to get fresh straw for the pigs. As he passed the dairymaid who was milking, he said, “Give us a sip, please. I’m about to perish from thirst.”
“Open your mouth,” laughed the dairymaid, and she squirted milk into Tom’s mouth until it ran down his shirt.
“Stop yer tomfoolery—wastin’ milk like that—or I’ll give ye both a clout,” shouted Jack the reeve (overseer) as he rubbed down a horse.
Tom noticed that the horse Jack curried was not one belonging to the rectory stables. “Who’s come on the strange horse?” he asked.
“The master, Mr. Wyclif himself,” replied Jack. “You’d better mind yer manners because Master says he’s here to stay this time. And there are others with him for the night. Hurry up, Tom, yer mother wants you in the kitchen to turn the spit.”
Tom sighed and filled a basket with straw and carried it to the pigs. There will be a lot more work with Mr. Wyclif here all the time, he thought. Why didn’t he stay at Oxfordwhere he has been teaching?
Delicious smells and warmth from the fires greeted Tom when he opened the kitchen door. “I’m glad you’re here, Tom,” his mother, who was in charge of the kitchen, told him. “Now be a good lad and turn the spit. It’s too heavy for Hannah and I need her help with these mince pasties.”
Before long Tom felt as though he were being roasted along with the chickens. His arms ached and his stomach growled. He hoped there would be food left after the master and his guests had eaten.
Tom’s mother placed the chickens on a trencher (wooden platter) near the hearth to keep warm and said, “Tom, you’ll have to help the house lads carry the food upstairs and serve it.”
“Has Master left the school for good?” Tom asked.
“He was let out,” his mother replied in a whisper. “Jack says it’s because his ideas on religion are wrong—but that’s not so. I’ve heard he just wants to take the mystery out of religion so simple folk like us can understand the gospel.”
Hours later when Tom was at the kitchen table having his supper, he was still puzzling about what he had heard upstairs. “Mother, would you believe that Master is changing the Bible from Latin into English. He calls it translating. Those other gentlemen will help him. I’ll never forget what Master said: ‘The salvation of a peasant’s soul is as important as the salvation of the king’s soul.’”
“That’s true but I never heard it said so beautifully before. I believe we’re all equal in God’s sight but here among men we are unequal,” his mother answered.
Tom reached for a chicken wing. “But what’s the good of making the Bible into English if most of us can’t read?”
“Well there’s many an Englishman can read,” Mother answered. “Maybe we’ll be able to have it read to us.”
“Do you think I might even learn to read it myself?” Tom asked.
“No, son, I’m afraid that could never be,” she said sadly.
Quick tears of disappointment filled Tom’s eyes and he hurried from the room.
The next morning when he went to light a fire in Mr. Wyclif’s library, the black-robed scholar was already standing at his tall slanting desk. Tom could hear the scratching of the quill pen on the parchment, but the master did not seem to be aware that the boy was in the room.
A few mornings later, Tom found the library empty when he arrived before day-light to make the fire. Laying his armload of wood on the hearth, he lit candles on the table near the desk. He held one up so he could look at the writing on a large sheet of parchment. To Tom it was all just black marks on white, but he enjoyed looking at them just because he knew they were words. Suddenly the word Jesus stood out from the rest. He had seen it often, carved in stone at the foot of a statute of Christ in the church.
He noticed some torn scraps of parchment on the floor. Putting the candle back in the holder, he picked up the scraps. Then he went to the fireplace and rummaged around in the ashes until he found a small piece of burnt wood and hurried back to the desk. With great pains he tried again and again to copy the word Jesus on a scrap of parchment. A broad smile crossed his face when he made the word look almost like the one he was copying. Tom was so absorbed in what he was doing that he did not hear the master come into the room and almost jumped out of his skin when a quiet voice at his shoulder said, “You copy well, my son.”
Tom’s cheeks were scarlet when he whirled about to stammer, “I—I’m sorry, sir. I’ll make the fire at once.”
He started toward the fireplace, but Mr. Wyclif caught him by the arm.
“What is your name, lad?”
“Tom Brinton, sir.”
“You do not know how to write, do you?”
“No, sir, I was just trying to copy a word.”
“Do you know how to read?”
“No, sir.”
The old man bent down to look into Tom’s sad eyes. “You would very much like to do both, wouldn’t you?”
Tom looked up into the gentle faded gray eyes of Mr. Wyclif. “Aye, that I would, sir. But I’m the swineherd. The pigs are waiting to be taken to the forest and the reeve will beat me if I’m late.”
“I will go with you and tell the reeve he must find another swineherd. Today you will start learning to read and write at the village school. I need many boys and men to make copies of the Bible, and you have talent for it.”
Tom swallowed hard. “You mean, sir, that you will let me copy words that God has spoken if I learn to read and write?” he asked, not believing such good fortune.
“Yes, lad. People are already clamoring for copies. An eager Englishman came to see me yesterday. Because he had no money he offered a load of hay for a few pages. We’ll never be able to make enough copies for everyone who wants them. Why it takes me a whole day to copy a page. But I should tell you, Tom, that the work could become dangerous. Many of the clergy feel that there is no need for people to read the Bible and that only priests can explain sacred matters. However, I believe it’s the right of all men to read God’s word for themselves.”
Happy days, weeks, and months rushed by for Tom because his time was filled with books and slates and chalk. Finally he learned to write on parchment with pen and ink. Mr. Wyclif had the great hall in the rectory made into a scriptorium like the ones in monasteries. Each boy from the school had his own tall standing desk.
At Christmastime the rectory was gaily decorated with mistletoe and holly. On Christmas Eve the yule log was carried into the large library with the singing of carols. Before a blazing fire Mr. Wyclif read the story of the nativity to all the servants. It was the first time they had heard it read in English and its beauty held them spellbound. After enjoying roasted apples, chestnuts, marzipan, and mince pasties, they thanked Mr. Wyclif and left for their cottages.
Tom stayed to tidy the room. “Sit by the fire, lad,” Mr. Wyclif said. “I would like to have a word with you.”
Tom sat on a stool. The master took a piece of parchment from his desk. “My boy, you know that I have already been on trial twice for my beliefs. It was only because the common people raised such a commotion at the trials in London that I was allowed to go free. Now more trouble is brewing over this work we are doing. The clergy cry aloud that it is heresy to permit the common people to read the holy scriptures in English. They say the sacred book is not for ignorant people. Today the church is full of wealth and greed. I want to urge people to return to the simple life and faith of the first Christians who knew our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. But how can people know Christ unless they have a Bible they can read or have read to them in a language they understand?”
Mr. Wyclif sighed heavily and then handed Tom a parchment. “My Christmas gift to you and your mother,” he said.
The boy’s eyes grew wide with surprise as he read the document. It had been made by a man of law and bore the seal of Mr. Wyclif’s signet ring. It stated that Tom and his mother were free. “Why—why—are you giving us this great gift?” Tom asked.
“All the other boys in the scriptorium are freeborn. If trouble comes, they can choose to leave or stay. I want you to have the same privilege.”
Tom rose from the stool in a daze. He could scarcely choke words from his tight throat but finally he managed to say, “I’ll never leave you as long as you need me. Never! I know that every page I copy is a step forward to help other boys like me learn about God.”
The master put his arm around Tom’s shoulder. “You have just given me the finest Christmas gift you could possibly offer—your loyalty to our work. Now go and read the paper to your mother.”

The smell of baking cookies filled the air as Nataniel helped Grandma scoop dough onto cookie sheets. Grandma smiled at him. “Who loves you?” she asked.
Nataniel thought about how Grandma always made his favorite kind of cookies and kept paper on hand because she knew he liked to draw. “You do,” he answered.
“That’s right,” Grandma said. “I’ve known you longer than anyone besides your mom and dad. But there’s someone else who has known you even longer than I have.”
“Who else?” Nataniel asked.
“Someone who loved you before you came to earth,” Grandma said.
“Oh,” Nataniel said. “You mean Heavenly Father.”
“Yes,” Grandma said, giving Nataniel a hug.
He smiled. Knowing he was loved made him feel warm inside.

I had been serving with the U.S. Army in Vietnam for two years. Vietnam has two seasons, hot and dry and hot and wet. This morning was hot and wet, just as each previous day had been for the past several weeks. I was sitting in a shallow ditch, too tired to care about the mud oozing into my army boots or the stench of the blood stained water around my feet. Sweat was pouring down my brow, soaking my shirt. The oppressive heat made breathing laborious.
I had spent the past three weeks on patrol operations. Now, with those of my colleagues still alive, I was waiting by a loading zone for helicopters to take us back to base camp.
I thought of the past few days—of my friends who had died, of the pain of those who hadn’t, and of how tired I was of everything. We had had weeks of constant patrol, chasing enemy troops by day and praying at night that they wouldn’t come looking for us. But they always did.
I instinctively crouched deeper into the ditch as a bullet whined overhead. An enemy sniper had started shooting, so this was no time to be careless. Our guards were scanning the jungle, but they had not yet spotted the source of the rifle fire.
The roar of helicopters filled the air and three of them landed some ten meters behind me. Their machine guns opened up to keep the enemy occupied. Fresh troops, our replacements, scrambled off the helicopters and into the ditch as our wounded were loaded aboard. The entire exchange lasted only seconds, and then the helicopters were gone. The next flight would be for us. “Just a little longer,” I thought to myself as I tried to control the urge to stand up and stretch my cramped legs.
In the silence broken only by muffled conversation and occasional gunfire, I became aware of someone whistling a familiar tune. What was that song? It seemed to calm my fears and shut out the war. I listened intently and looked around to see a soldier sitting about a meter away. I couldn’t make out his name tag; he was another private from the company that had just arrived. He continued to whistle—and then I recognized the tune, “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet.”
I quickly crawled over to him and asked if he was a Latter-day Saint and if he held the priesthood. He said yes, and my heart skipped a beat; I had not been in touch with another Church member since I had attended the Saigon Branch several months before. I asked if he was worthy to bless the sacrament, and he told me that he was.
It was the Sabbath; I knew that only because of the day and date feature on my watch. I had an army ration biscuit and a canteen of water, so I asked if he would help me with the sacrament. He nodded and we crawled out of the ditch—out of sight of the other soldiers—into the tall grass and bamboo.
I pulled from my pocket my serviceman’s copy of Principles of the Gospel that my bishop had given me when I had received my draft notice. I offered my helmet, upturned, for our table, and the soldier produced a clean white handkerchief for the sacrament cloth. Kneeling with my new companion in the mud, I unwrapped the biscuit and broke and blessed it. While I prayed, he watched the jungle with his rifle ready. We served each other. Then he laid down his weapon, took the canteen cup of water, and blessed it while I guarded him.
Never in my life has the bread of the sacrament tasted so sweet and the water so pure as it did that day, nor has my soul been so strengthened by the ordinance. We clasped hands, then quickly crawled back to the protection of the ditch. Immediately, the noise of the helicopters again filled the air, and I was up and running for the loading zone with my colleagues. I turned and looked back, my fear had left me. My brother-in-the-gospel smiled and waved. I climbed aboard the helicopter, and we were gone.
I never asked that soldier’s name, nor he mine, but in those brief moments we forged a bond to last throughout eternity. Another member of the Church had rescued my soul from the horror and despair of war. Partaking of the sacrament in the jungle had brought me closer to the Lord than I had ever been before.
Through a gospel ordinance, we had found peace.

The girls were encouraged to think about their future goals in preparation for a very special fashion show that was also part of the conference. Each young woman either made or coordinated an outfit to wear, and as they were escorted down the runway, their achievements and dreams were capsulized by the emcee.
Amanda Wilson, 15, of the Richardson First Ward, was right in her element during this part of the day. Her mother began teaching her to sew when she was seven years old, and now you might wonder who is teaching whom. Not only did Amanda sew several outfits for the fashion show, but she designed them as well, making her own patterns.
Amanda is refining her talents now so that one day she can major in fashion merchandising and hopefully have her own designing business. But in the meantime, she uses her abilities by sewing for ward members.

For some reason as Peter Nordhoff walked through the room, the words he heard from the television made him stop. General conference was being broadcast, and his wife, who had been recently reactivated through the fellowship of a friend, was watching.
Peter and Adrina had been raised in the Church and married in the temple, but for nearly ten years they had not been involved much with the Church. At first, his work kept him busy on Sundays. When that changed, they used Sundays to relax together.
But that conference Sunday changed their lives. “The words of a prophet of God affected me,” Peter says. “The Spirit spoke to me through God’s mouthpiece. It was like a second birth for me. Listening to the prophet helped me realize that I must start doing the things I was supposed to be doing if I wanted my wife and daughter near me in eternity.” Later that day, Peter and Adrina went to their bishop.
“We went from less-active to overactive very quickly,” recalls Adrina, smiling.

When I was nine years old, my father, Charles Monson, was called as a bishop. He served as bishop until I was nineteen years old. I had many marvelous experiences watching him serve and seeing him do so much and still be a wonderful father.
When I was twenty-nine years old, I was called to serve as a bishop. It seemed like a hard thing to do, but I remembered my father’s example. I also remembered my Primary teachers telling me how Nephi had received the difficult assignment to go back to Jerusalem and get the brass plates from Laban. He didn’t make excuses. Instead he relied on the Lord and said, “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Ne. 3:7). I knew that if I also relied on the Lord, as Nephi had, I could accept the calling I had just received.

People generally want to go home for the holidays. We even sing “I’ll be home for Christmas.” Being at home with loved ones and repeating family traditions is what makes Christmas special. A few years ago, however, I learned that when you are with those people you love, you can feel that you are home for Christmas anywhere.
In December of 1981 I was in the Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City for brain surgery. The operation was scheduled for December 10 so I’d be well enough to go home before Christmas. Things didn’t turn out to be so simple. The operation lasted 14 hours, and within the next two weeks my right lung collapsed twice; so I was obviously in no condition to go home when Christmas rolled around.
Christmas in the hospital? It was not a pleasing thought for me. In fact, I became quite depressed. How could I enjoy Christmas in this situation?
A traditional Christmas at our house starts on Christmas Eve. Last minute tasks have already been taken care of because Christmas Eve is as special as the next day. It’s the time for our Christmas Eve program of songs, stories, and presentations. The last part of the program is always the reading of the Christmas story from the Bible by my mother. Then just before bed, everyone is allowed to open one present from under the tree.
Christmas morning we all get up together to see what Santa Claus has brought. Then one by one we go through the stockings stuffed with surprises. Next, all the presents are passed out, and we take turns opening each gift. These are the basic traditions that make Christmas memorable to me.
But that year in the hospital there were no presents under a tree, no stockings on the fireplace, and no piano to sing songs around. There were just a few decorations strung around the room between the machines and tubes hooked to my body, and the small Christmas tree my grandma had sent. While I was wondering what kind of a Christmas it was going to be, my family was making plans, and they were able to get me excited for the occasion even in my bleak circumstance.
I’ll bet there are few people who can say that they’ve held a family Christmas Eve program in a semi-intensive care hospital room. It may have been the shortest program in history, but we still had one. My sister, who knows three chords on the guitar, even brought her instrument to play some carols. My mother read the Christmas story as beautifully as ever.
Christmas morning Santa Claus not only came, but he awoke me personally with a large box filled with candy, games, and a homemade doll. After my morning routine with the nurses, my family arrived. They hauled all of the family’s presents up to my room, and passed out the gifts. One by one we went around the circle opening all the packages.
Because of my family’s love and our traditions, it turned out to be a wonderful Christmas after all and one of my most memorable as well. Surely, if you can succeed in making yourself feel at home for Christmas in the hospital, you can find a way to be at home for the holidays anywhere.

For Tino, missionary service took an unexpected turn. Deferment of their mandatory military obligation is not allowed for Portuguese missionaries, and Tino was called into his country’s air force. He still remembers the counsel of R. Perry Ficklin, then president of the Portugal Lisbon Mission, who explained that Elder Moreira’s missionary service wasn’t over, that he was only being “transferred to another area—more difficult.” Tino went on to teach and baptize a number of people in the air force.

After graduation Franklin received an appointment to the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. He wondered if he accepted the appointment if he would ever serve a full-time mission. It was a difficult decision to make. Elder Richards said, “I think unknowingly I was following the advice of the Lord to Oliver Cowdery:
“‘Behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right’ [D&C 9:8].
“In effect, I was doing that, I thought about a mission and about my grandfather, and I wondered, Do I want to go to Annapolis and tie myself up or don’t I? So I studied it out, talked to several people, and reached the decision that I would prefer to go on a mission. I made it a matter of prayer, expressing my feelings to the Lord, and the Holy Ghost bore witness to me that my decision was right.”

I was reared in the Philippines by strict but loving grandparents. My grandfather’s favorite phrase was, “It’s for your own good.” He used it whenever I acted stubborn or failed to finish a chore. He always said that the things he asked of me would help me become better prepared when I grew up. Although I didn’t fully comprehend his words, young as I was, I obeyed—if for no other reason than to avoid further sermons.
My grandparents were religious people. By the time I was five, I knew there was a loving God who blessed us as we obeyed His commandments. Going to church on Sundays was a must, and singing hymns, reading Bible stories, and praying were part of our daily routine. I felt temporally and spiritually blessed. We were happy and content.
Then events came into my life that shattered my peace like the sudden blow of unpredicted bad weather. My grandparents died unexpectedly one Christmas season when I was a teenager. The sorrow I felt seemed to ruin forever the joys and anticipation of Christmas. A couple of months later, my parents’ home burned down. A year later, my mother was in a car accident that left her an invalid. Then my father lost his job.
Tribulations beset me like a storm. With little money, I lost hope of earning a college degree. The demands of household chores drained me of energy.
Confused and battered emotionally and spiritually, I began to doubt God’s existence. I began to ask why He had allowed such adversity to come into my life when I had always tried to obey Him. The whys continued to bother me, and with no answers, I slowly drifted away from the church I was attending at the time. For years I searched other religions for answers and relief, but nothing satisfied me.
One bright summer afternoon, a close friend invited me to meet the Latter-day Saint missionaries. They impressed me with their polite greeting and neat appearance, and I was curious about their name tags, which bore the name of Jesus Christ. Somewhere inside my soul, a soft but clear voice seemed to whisper, Hear their message; it’s for your own good. The familiar phrase echoed in my mind.
As I listened to the discussions, my faith in God’s existence was gradually restored, and I accepted the gospel of Jesus Christ. Following my baptism, I found that my lifelong questions had answers. I read in Doctrine and Covenants 122:5–7 the Lord’s words to the Prophet Joseph Smith: “If thou art called to pass through tribulation … all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.” I have come to realize that great blessings did come from my trials, for they led me to the true fold of God.
Looking back on my experiences, I realize they truly were for my good—just as Grandfather had said.

The Prophet recognized in himself many weaknesses, but he set about to overcome them. He recorded that on one occasion, a man came into his home and in a rage called him almost every name under heaven. The Prophet wrote that he was so incensed he kicked the man out of his house and all the way to the front gate. He then went back to his office and wrote in his journal how unbecoming of a prophet his actions had been. He never lost his temper again.

Hi! I’m Jackson, from Germany, and this is my brother, Josiah, and my sister, Cora Jade.
Lots of people come to Germany when they’re not safe in their countries anymore. They’re called refugees. The kids don’t have any toys, so I gave them some of mine. Then I had a great idea. I asked my mom if we could make dolls for them.
I love to sew with my mom. I pushed the pedal on the sewing machine and put the stuffing in the dolls.
My family collected some clothes and toys to give to the refugees here. We drew pictures for them of things that make us happy.
We took the dolls to the refugee camps and gave them to kids there. I like making new friends!
They sang songs for us, and we played our instruments for them. Some people who were sad smiled when we played “I Am a Child of God.” It felt really, really, really good.
The kids we met are like us in lots of ways. All of us like to sing and get toys and play outside. I know Jesus loves them, and He loves me.
For more ideas on serving refugees in your area, visit lds.org/go/61775.