Gospel Story Finder

Shortly before the April 2020 general conference, President Russell M. Nelson invited my wife, Kalleen, and me into his office, where he called me to be the General Young Men President. As our heads were spinning over this totally unexpected turn of events, he stood and said: “This is an important time for the youth of the Church because it’s an important time for the Church. The youth will play a critical role in this wondrous time.” He added, “You know, I have invited them into the Lord’s battalions.”
“Yes, President Nelson,” I said. “I know you have, and I know they are listening.”
“Well, it’s important that they do, because they are needed.”
I am paraphrasing only a little here, but he then went on to talk with great energy about the long-prophesied gathering that is taking place and the important work the Lord has for our youth to do. He spoke with a sense of urgency and great immediacy that they have been specifically sent to prepare for the Savior’s return.

A young mother was running late to a very important meeting one time. As she dashed from her bedroom, her little three-year-old stopped her and said, “Mommy. Mom.”

To which the mother replied, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Mom, I need to tell you something.”

“Not now,” said the mother with an impatient wave of her hand.

“Mom,” began the little girl again.

“Oh, what is it?” said the mother.

“I just wanted to tell you I love you!”

As the Taylor family gathered around the dinner table, Shauna knew that her mother was upset.
“I have an announcement to make,” Mrs. Taylor said quietly, halfway through dinner.
Shauna put her fork down and looked at her mother.
“I have come to the conclusion,” Mrs. Taylor declared, “that this house is haunted.”
“You mean with a ghost?” Peter asked, his eyes growing big.
Shauna thought that ghosts only existed in books and movies.
“What makes you think there’s a ghost here?” Kathy asked. “I just read an article about a house people claim is haunted, but I don’t believe in them, do—”
“I haven’t seen a ghost,” Tim interrupted.
“It’s the only explanation left.” Mother continued. “Too many things are happening that none of us are responsible for.”
“What things?” Shauna asked for all of them.
“Oh, I found wet bath towels on the floor after you children hung them up. An entire package of cookies disappeared the other day when each of you only had two.”
Shauna watched Tim’s face turn red as he squirmed in his seat.
“Then, there are the dirty dishes,” Mr. Taylor added. “We know that you children always rinse off your dishes and put them in the dishwasher when you fix something to eat. But every time I come into the kitchen, I find dirty dishes all over. This ghost has been very hungry lately.”
“It’s also been sneaking into empty rooms and turning on the lights. The other day it even turned on the TV during study time,” Mrs. Taylor went on.
“Does anyone know who’s responsible for this?” Mr. Taylor asked.
The room remained silent.
“In that case,” Mr. Taylor concluded, “we must have a ghost.”
Shauna thought about the “ghost” several times that evening as she finished her homework and got ready for bed. Her mother had looked very tired tonight. Maybe if the Taylor ghost was a little better behaved, things would run more smoothly for her and for the whole family.
No one was home when Shauna returned from school the next afternoon. She removed her backpack, dug the house key out of its side pocket, and let herself in.
The house was a mess! Breakfast dishes were still on the counter. The living room hadn’t been touched since the night before. And towels were draped everywhere in the bathroom. Obviously, Mom had not been there all day as she usually was.
Shauna picked up a note on the kitchen table. “Dear children,” it read. “Grandma is not feeling well. I’m taking her to the doctor and then cleaning her house. Peter is going to Mrs. Pulsipher’s after school—please pick him up. I’ll be home in time for Tim’s award banquet.”
Shauna went to pick up Peter. At their return, Tim and Kathy were just getting home from school.
“I hope Grandma isn’t too sick,” Kathy said, after reading the note to Tim. “Me, too,” he said.
“This place is really a mess, isn’t it?” Shauna asked as they walked through the house to the kitchen.
“It looks like the Taylor ghost and its friends have been here.” Tim laughed. “Speaking of friends, I think I’ll run over to Jeff’s and pick up a tape I want to hear. I hope Mom didn’t forget about the muffins we have to take to the banquet tonight.”
“We can’t leave this mess for Mom,” Shauna protested.
“Get the ghost to clean it up,” Peter suggested.
“That’s a good idea,” Kathy agreed.
“I’m no ghost,” Tim argued. “I’m out of here.”
“I sure hope the ghost doesn’t tell Dad that you left without doing your homework,” Shauna said as Tim opened the front door.
“All right,” he groaned, returning to the kitchen. “But let’s get this over with. I don’t want to spend all afternoon playing ghost.”
Shauna and Peter went through the house putting things in their proper places. They especially made sure that all the towels were hung neatly. Tim did the dishes, while Kathy baked raisin muffins.
When all the tasks were done, Kathy helped Shauna cut out a ghost shape from a piece of white construction paper. They made a name tag for it with a red-bordered gummed label. Shauna printed Taylor Ghost on it, stuck it on the ghost, and placed it on the kitchen counter next to the muffins.
The children—even Tim—gathered around the kitchen table to do their homework while they waited for their mother. Peter brought a coloring book and crayons.
It wasn’t long before the front door opened and Mrs. Taylor rushed to the kitchen. She stopped abruptly and looked around, astonished. Then she spied the muffins on the counter and hurried over and picked up the ghost. “I see our ghost has been here. I like him. I hope he haunts this house forever!” She went around the table and gave everyone a big hug.
That evening as Shauna crawled into bed, she noticed something under her pillow. It was a candy bar wrapped in a note. She carefully removed the paper. It read:
Dear Ghost,
Thank you for helping me today.
I love you,
Mom
Shauna placed the candy bar on top of her desk. She’d save it for after school tomorrow. It had been a long, busy day, and she was tired. It’s a happy kind of tired, though, she decided as she drifted off to sleep.

“What’s the matter with Anderson?” everyone was asking.
“Maybe he’s sick,” guessed Howard Mountain Lion.
“He doesn’t look sick,” replied Ruben Six Killer.
“Come and play, Anderson,” called Aaron Long Run. “You’re always missing recess.”
Anderson kept whittling on a stick. He didn’t even look up.
“Maybe he didn’t do his lessons,” Mary Tall Eagle suggested.
“No, he always does his lessons,” her brother, Freddie, insisted.
“He’s just tired or something,” Aaron said. Then he yelled, “Blackfoot warriors coming!”
Everybody forgot Anderson. The boys galloped off on their stick horses to ambush the invading tribe.
With a gloomy look on his face, Anderson Corn Bread watched the others play.
“I wish that new teacher hadn’t come to our school,” he muttered. “She’s always saying, ‘Be proud of your Indian history!’” Anderson mimicked. “‘Live up to your tribal names!’” He paused and then continued mumbling to himself, “All we ever study are Indian hunters and warriors.”
Anderson glared across the schoolyard at the boys playing as if they were warriors fighting a fierce battle over tribal territory.
“Howie Mountain Lion thinks he’s so brave!” Anderson burst out. “I bet your grandfather was as scared of mountain lions as you were of that badger we saw last summer.
“And look at Aaron Long Run playing as if he’s his great-grandfather, the one Teacher says ran for three days to warn his people the Blackfoot nation was on the warpath. That Aaron, he’d run away if he saw his own black feet!”
Anderson went on spitefully, “And Ruben Six Killer—he couldn’t kill six grasshoppers. And Freddie Tall Eagle—”
“And Anderson Corn Bread,” a voice spoke.
Anderson whirled around ready to fight. But it was only old Mattie Washtub. Some people said Mattie was a witch, and others claimed she was a wise woman who knew all things and heard thoughts not spoken.
Mattie Washtub didn’t look at Anderson. She just poked in the weeds with her stick, mumbling all the while.
All the kids were afraid of Mattie. Anderson didn’t know whether to run or not. He was about to slip down off the fence when he noticed she was muttering about the first one called Corn Bread—Anderson’s father, three fathers back.
“He was a good man,” old Mattie was saying. “Many men asked, ‘Corn Bread, will you tame my wild horses?’ No other man in all the tribe could gentle an animal like he could. Even the wild creatures of the mountain, feathered or four-footed, took food from his hand.”
Suddenly Mattie’s face was right in front of Anderson’s.
“What matters the name or how it came?” Mattie challenged.
Anderson was so startled that he tumbled off the fence. He jumped up and ran to the schoolhouse. But he had heard everything old Mattie said. Her words kept going round and round in his head and in his heart.
Early the next Saturday Anderson went into the foothills with his sister, Nahni, to pick bullberries. Along the irrigation canal they found many bushes with thick clusters of the mellow orange fruit. It was cool there, with only the sounds of plopping berries and chirkling water.
Suddenly the peaceful morning was split by a CRASH! SCREAM! SPLASH!
Anderson went thrashing through the bushes to see what had happened to Nahni.
She had fallen into the canal, and the swift full stream was tumbling her over and over.
Anderson quickly threw his weight on some long overhanging branches. In an instant Nahni was swept into them and she grabbed hold. Gasping, she pulled herself up and held on.
Anderson frantically looked here and there, trying to think of a way to get his sister out. The canal was wide and deep with straight sides. Anderson couldn’t reach Nahni, and if she tried to move, she would be swept off her feet again.
Suddenly Anderson knew what to do. He shouted, “Can you hold on awhile?”
Nahni nodded, but her teeth were already chattering from the icy water.
“I’ll hurry,” Anderson assured her.
He eased himself off the branches and dashed away. Nahni would drown before he could ever get help from the village, so Anderson ran in the other direction like a scared rabbit. When he reached the weir where the mountain creek was diverted into the canal, he tugged and tugged at the main head gate. But the surging water jammed it tight. Frantically, Anderson smashed against the supports with a big rock, weakening them until the water itself tore away part of the gate and rushed through. Then Anderson was able to divert most of the water endangering his sister.
Back he ran to help her. Carrying a long pole, Anderson jumped in beside Nahni. Finally he was able to get her over the bank to safety.
A few weeks later the tribal council called all the people to an important meeting. Everyone was surprised when the council chief announced, “It is the wish of the tribal council that the boy Anderson Corn Bread stand before them.”
Anderson couldn’t believe his ears. He was terrified. He tried to think what mischief he had done that the council would handle the problem instead of his own father. Someone gave Anderson a nudge, and he went forward on wooden legs. He felt as if the eyes of all the world were on him.
Anderson heard a voice speaking. It sounded far away, and at first he couldn’t catch even a word. But then as the voice continued, he heard “… in wisdom and action … to face trouble, not whining, crying for help, or making excuses … acting as a man … tradition of tribe to earn his own name … known forever by his proudest deed. We, the tribal council, decree that hereafter Anderson Corn Bread be known forever by all people in all places … this new name … earned by his own …”
Anderson felt as if he had been struck with lightning and was glowing with fire! They were honoring him! They had given him a proud new name! But just for helping his sister?
Anderson saw his mother, who looked pleased, but he could not tell how his father felt. Father was a good man and, like all the Corn Bread men, one of the best with animals.
Now there was silence. Anderson realized the council waited for an acceptance of their honor. The proud new name buzzed in Corn Bread’s head but other thoughts struggled in his mind. His eyes ran around the room seeking words to make his tongue work. His mother looked nervous; his father had a wondering look; the elders looked solemn.
Sitting on the floor in the corner old Mattie Washtub nodded as if asleep. But she was giving Anderson the most searching look of all. Anderson remembered the words Mattie had spoken to him that day. And suddenly he knew what he wanted to say!
Anderson spoke in a shy quiet voice, but the room was so listening-still that everyone heard clearly.
“I thank the tribal council for this great honor, but I do not wish to have the new name,” Anderson spoke haltingly as he looked at his father. “My father’s name is a good name. All the men of his family have made it a good name. I want to make it a good name too.”
Then, raising his eyes to old Mattie, who was staring at him, Anderson repeated her words, “What matters the name or how it came?”
Suddenly Anderson knew that a man’s real name is the thought of him other men carry in their hearts.

That accident caused me to think of things I’d never really thought much about before—like going on a mission. Because of that accident, I did go on a mission, to Texas. It was the most wonderful experience of my life. For the first time, I really stopped thinking just about myself, my basketball, and my baseball. I started thinking about other people. I saw the gospel come into their lives; I watched them change, and I saw how excited they got. I got excited with them. It was the most joyful thing that I’d ever done. The excitement and joy have never left me. I still love missionary work; I love to see people embrace the gospel.

The night was freezing, with snow coming thick and fast. I was warm and safe in our home, and our three children were sleeping soundly. My husband was attending a bishopric meeting at the chapel some five miles (8 km) away. At about 8:30 there was an unexpected knock at the door. Immediately I felt strongly impressed that I was not to open the door. This certainty—this warning of danger—had never before come to me so strongly.
I was therefore quite stunned to hear my husband’s brother answer my query as to who was there. My husband’s only brother, Michael, a member of the Church, lived 70 miles (110 km) away. We had a very good relationship with him, and it was not surprising that he would visit, possibly expecting to stay a few days, as he had done many times before. It wasn’t even surprising that he hadn’t called, since the phone lines were down because of the weather. I should have felt safe and relieved, and it would have been normal for me to welcome him into our home on this cold winter night.
I could not understand the strong feelings I had or why I heard myself asking him to travel to the chapel to meet my husband. After a stunned silence my brother-in-law explained in a rather strange manner that he had traveled by train, then had caught the bus to our home, and now the snow was getting quite deep.
A powerful prompting continued to impress upon me that I must not, for any reason, open the door. I calmly explained that I was sorry and repeated my request for him to travel to the chapel to meet my husband.
For the remainder of the evening I reflected on my actions. Poor Michael had traveled several hours by train and bus, and on a cold winter evening I had turned him away. How could anyone be so uncaring? Yet at the same time I was unable to deny the strong witness that I was in danger and must not open my door.
It was late and I was almost asleep when my husband returned home. We discussed the situation very briefly, my husband confirming that his brother had met him and was now sleeping downstairs. I no longer felt any fear and slept very soundly.
The next morning I puzzled over how I could explain my actions to Michael. Would he be angry with me? I took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. “Michael, about last night … ,” I began but stopped when I saw that, far from being angry, he was actually smiling.
“I’m so glad you did not let us in last night,” he said. I had no idea until then that he had not been alone. He proceeded to tell me how he had met Steve, an old school friend, on the train, and it had taken him some time to realize that Steve was high on drugs. By then Michael had already told him where he was going. Steve became more and more aggressive during the journey. He explained he urgently needed money and a place to sleep. He forcibly accompanied Michael to our home with what my brother-in-law could describe only as “the most evil of intentions.”
“So, you see,” said Michael, “I stood outside the door, praying that you would not let us in. By the time we set off on the long trip to the chapel, Steve lost interest and said he would go and find some ‘action’ somewhere else.”
I will never know what might have befallen our family or me that winter night. I will just be eternally grateful to have learned one of the most valuable lessons here on earth—to obey the promptings of the Holy Spirit. Even when there appears to be no logical reason, we will be kept safe by relying on that still, small voice.

My own mother helped strengthen her home and family in her youth. The oldest child in a less-active family, she was born with the gift of faith. She took herself to Primary and Mutual. She qualified for a temple marriage even before her parents were able to go. She became an agent for righteousness, a steadfast witness whose example helped strengthen her parents and siblings. You young women too can stand as a witness of God by nurturing a spirit of faith, love, peace, and testimony in your homes now, preparing you to do the same when you establish your own future homes. I am the product of a righteous young woman who stood “steadfast and immovable, always abounding in good works.”

About half-way through the Book of Mormon, it became obvious that we need to “quicken our pace and lengthen our stride” if the children were to have the Book of Mormon read before they left home for college, marriage, or missions. We had long since progressed to reading both columns on a page. Now we started reading two pages a night. By October 1986 we set a goal. We would have the book finished by Christmas!
It was a special night when we read the last page. We planned it so that Jill, who was five, could read the last verse. We didn’t say much, but the prayer that night was one of special thanks for our eight-year journey through the Book of Mormon.
We thought of having a celebration, but in the end we realized that this was only the end of the Book of Mormon part of our effort; it was not the end of our daily scripture reading. So we celebrated by going to the store for ice cream. Our real reward was the quiet satisfaction we each felt. We had read the Book of Mormon, and we had done it together.

Truman Osborn Angell was born in 1810 in North Providence, Rhode Island, to James and Phebe Osborn Angell. The fifth of ten children, Truman learned responsibility at an early age. When he was only nine, his father left home for a time, and the young boy became responsible for much of the work on the family farm and was able to attend school for only two winters. At the age of seventeen, Truman was apprenticed to a joiner to learn the craft of carving and fitting beautiful wood trim for homes.
About this time, an important occurrence took place in his life. In his journal he wrote, “I felt an earnest desire to become a subject of Christianity.” For months he prayed for guidance, and his “mischievous life and shortcomings were laid aside.”
This change prepared Truman to accept the message of two Latter-day Saint missionaries a few years later, after he had moved to western New York. He was baptized, and so were his wife, Polly, and his mother. Then, fired with the spirit and happiness of the gospel, Truman and a cousin traveled east five hundred miles, preaching daily for nine weeks.
Truman had a desire to join the main body of the Church, and in 1835 he moved his little family to Kirtland, Ohio, where he found work waiting for him in the temple. Pulpits, pews, stairs, window casings, and doorjambs all needed to be built. The Prophet Joseph noticed his fine work and put him in charge of many other buildings in Kirtland.
When the Kirtland Temple was almost completed, Truman was ordained a seventy. Eagerly he prepared for another mission. But shortly before he was to go, Joseph Smith asked him to stay and build a store. Truman told the Prophet that he was now a seventy and wanted to serve a mission. The Prophet simply said, “Well, go ahead.”
After Joseph Smith left, Truman struggled with his thoughts: How could he bear testimony of a prophet of the Lord if he, Truman, was not willing to heed that prophet’s counsel? Truman remained in Kirtland and built the store and many other buildings that were needed. Joseph Smith prophesied that the joiner would have enough work for twenty men, and he did.
Continuing to move wherever the main body of the Saints settled, the Angell family suffered from mobs and persecution in Missouri and Nauvoo, and over the years several of Truman’s young children died. While the last of the Saints were being driven from Nauvoo, Truman and a few other brethren remained behind to complete the temple and dedicate it to the Lord. The young joiner must have been heartsick to hear how that sacred building was later desecrated and burned.
Truman was among the first group of Saints to enter the Salt Lake Valley in 1847. Two years earlier he had been told in a patriarchal blessing that “thy calling is more particularly to labor in assisting the Saints to build cities and temples than travelling abroad to preach the gospel.” The young joiner’s abilities as an architect were recognized by Brigham Young, and soon Truman was busy designing homes, schools, churches, a sugar factory, forts, stores, a penitentiary, a theater, a governor’s mansion, and, most importantly, temples.
Many beautiful buildings still stand today as proof of Truman Angell’s architectural talent. The Salt Lake and St. George temples and Brigham Young’s Beehive House, Lion House, and Eagle Gate are just a few examples of his work.
Truman considered his work a calling rather than a job. Most workers donated a tenth of their time to Church projects, but full-time workers like Truman were paid in tithing scrip, which could be exchanged for groceries, clothing, and other necessities.
Truman studied architectural design and innovations in building. The constant pressure of being the Church’s architect was a strain on his health, so Brigham Young called him to serve a mission in Europe, where he was to not only preach to the people but also visit the great buildings and study the architectural styles there. He had been on his mission for thirteen months when he was called to return to help with the Salt Lake Temple.
Work on the temple did not progress very rapidly at first. There were several delays, such as the time President James Buchanan sent United States troops to Utah with a new governor to replace Brigham Young. The Saints, remembering the mob violence of the East, were not going to allow their new homes and lands to be plundered again. They stripped their homes of valuables and filled them with straw to be set afire if and when the enemy troops came. Even the foundation of the temple was covered with dirt, making it appear to be only a plowed field. Fortunately a peaceful settlement was reached before the troops arrived in Salt Lake.
As the building of the temple progressed, Truman sought the advice and counsel of President Young almost every step of the way. There were many details that had to be taken care of, and the work required Truman’s constant supervision. All his efforts were devoted to serving the Lord, despite constant poor health and personal heartaches.
The architect did not live to see the completion of the beautiful Salt Lake Temple, but the majestic structure will stand for many years to come as a monument to his and other Saints’ dedication in building the Lord’s kingdom here on earth.

Photograph from iStockphoto/Thinkstock
A week after graduating high school, I moved to the other side of the country to live with my older sister’s family for the summer before I started college in the fall.
I made a few friends, most of them older and in college. One Saturday night two of my new friends picked me up to go hear a good band that was playing at a local club.
As we parked, I started feeling a little nervous, but I didn’t want to object and ruin the evening. We entered the club, and the man behind the counter looked at my driver’s license. Without warning he swiped a black permanent marker across the knuckles on both of my hands.
I looked down in surprise. I realized he had marked my hands to show that I was too young to buy alcohol at the bar.
I was immediately uncomfortable. People were drinking and smoking.
I’m sorry to say that I didn’t have the courage to leave right then. After about 30 minutes, one of my friends asked if I was feeling OK. I told him I had a headache from the music and smoke. He offered to take me home, and I gratefully accepted.
I rushed into the bathroom at my sister’s house and scrubbed at those black marks until it hurt. I would be taking the sacrament with these hands the next day, and I desperately wanted them to be clean. However, two faint black lines remained visible on my raw, pink skin.
Before I went to bed, in prayer I asked forgiveness for not having the courage to leave—and more appropriately, for not having the courage to never go inside in the first place. I promised Heavenly Father I would never allow myself to get in that kind of situation again.
The next morning I was able to remove most of the rest of the marker, and my hands were almost completely clean when I took the sacrament. I thought of how sin is like those black marks. It takes effort and can even be painful, but we can repent and have our sins removed through the power of the Atonement and be clean from the black marks in our lives.

1832–1919
“She took me in and was a mother to me.”
She and her husband joined the Church in Hawaii.
She cared for Joseph F. Smith when he was sick as a young missionary.
When Joseph F. Smith was the prophet, he promised her she would live to see the temple in Hawaii.
When the temple in Hawaii was finished,she was able to go inside and be sealed.
Joseph F. Smith, as quoted by Charles W. Nibley in Gospel Doctrine, 5th ed. (1939), 520.

The words persuasion, meekness, long-suffering, kindness, gentleness, and love unfeigned took on a new and very personal meaning to me as I remembered a blessing I requested of my father years ago.

When I was a young single adult, I was struggling with a difficult decision. As I had done on several occasions, I approached my dad and requested a father’s blessing. Expecting him to immediately act on my request, I was surprised when he responded by saying, “I’ll need some time to prepare to give you this blessing. How would you feel about waiting a couple of days?”

Interestingly, 40 years later, I have forgotten what he said in that father’s blessing, but I’ll never forget the profound reverence my dad had for the holy priesthood as he prepared himself spiritually to pronounce a father’s blessing upon my head. He understood the principles taught in Doctrine and Covenants 121 and was determined to live them in order to qualify for priesthood power to bless his family. His example of meekness, long-suffering, kindness, gentleness, and love unfeigned continue to bless my life.

It seems like everybody is getting a tattoo these days, and at one point I wanted one too. A lot of my friends had tattoos, and I thought they made you look cool and tough. Thankfully, Heavenly Father reminded me through the Spirit who I really am and gave me the strength to respect my body.
One day a tattoo shop my friends talked highly about was having a big sale. At that time in my life, I’d made some mistakes that had hurt and wounded my spirit, but I believed that Heavenly Father still loved me and could heal me. Still, I didn’t think a cool tattoo was that bad. As I went down to the tattoo place, I contemplated where I wanted to place the snowboarder tattoo I was about to get. As I sat down in the tattoo shop, however, the Spirit brought other questions to my mind: “Why do I want something that would permanently alter my body just to fit in? Have I forgotten that my body is a temple?” (See 1 Corinthians 3:16–19.) The longer I sat, the more the Spirit prompted me that I was about to make a huge mistake. Fortunately, I couldn’t ignore what I was feeling, so I got up and left.
I’ve never looked back on that decision. I am grateful that Heavenly Father had not forgotten me and was willing to warn me through the Spirit. I know that Heavenly Father does care about all of us, no matter where we may be.

Criticism is a necessary part of ballet, Melanie explained. That’s how you become good. The more the better, but it can be devastating to your self-image. “I’m amazed at how people survive without the gospel,” she said, “and without a close family. The second I walk into class I give it 100 percent, but the minute I walk out the door I’m somewhere else. The greatest strength we can have comes from the Lord. It would be difficult to imagine doing anything without his help. One night I was depressed. I was homesick. I wanted to go home and give up. I was too upset to sleep, so I pulled out my patriarchal blessing and read. It made me feel so incredibly good to know my Father had said something to me. We can accomplish anything we want that’s right, if we put our families and the gospel first.”

Her desire to share the gospel blessed her when faced with a challenge with custom officers at the border.
Josey’s father passed away while living in Cote d’Ivoire. Josey and her brother were tasked with bringing her father’s body back to Togo for burial. They spent all the money their family had gathered hiring an ambulance to drive the 14 hours from Cote d’Ivoire to Togo. She was able to share the gospel and her testimony with the ambulance driver and her brother as they drove both day and night over bumpy roads. She even spoke to her father about the gospel, feeling that his spirit would listen to her too.
When they reached the Ghanaian border, the customs officer would not let them pass. She pleaded with him to let them pass because they had already spent a lot of time on the road and the journey wasn’t easy. She was also concerned that the air conditioning in the ambulance was not strong enough to keep the body from deteriorating. But still, the officer would not let them pass.
Because she had no money, the officer finally said that they could go if she would give him one of her possessions. She took out a pamphlet that told the story of the Restoration of the gospel and wrote her name and phone number in it. “This is all I have, but it is worth more than money, so you can keep it,” she said. “If you want to know more about this you can call me later, or if all you want is money, call me and I will bring it to you later.” He took the pamphlet and let her pass.
She wasn’t sure if the officer ever read the pamphlet, but her faith influenced the ambulance driver. “I will visit your church,” he said. “I like your spirit and it kept me going all the way to Togo.”

On the way home from school, Ben ran to catch up with his older brother, Rick. Rick didn’t seem to be in a good mood, but Ben had something important to ask him that just couldn’t wait.
“Hey, Rick,” Ben panted, “are you going to enter the school spirit contest this year?”
“I have no choice,” Rick said without slowing down. “Everyone has to enter.”
Ben was surprised. “But you probably can’t win it again.” Ben swallowed hard and then spoke quickly. “Maybe you’d like to help somebody else win.”
“Like who?” Rick asked.
“Like me.” Ben smiled weakly.
“You? Bashful Benny?”
“After I win, nobody will call me Bashful Benny anymore. They’ll know I’m somebody special, a real winner, like—well, like you.”
Rick’s expression softened. “Think so, huh? I’m sorry I can’t help you. It’s against the rules.”
“I didn’t mean for you to do anything. I just need to borrow your camera for a few days. Please?” Ben pleaded.
“You can use my camera for one week if I can cut up all your old magazines for my poster,” Rick said.
“Deal!” Ben sprinted home before Rick could change his mind.
Ben worked hard on his project. For the contest, students had to get involved in school activities and make posters to promote school spirit. Ben decided to take photographs of different school activities and mount them on poster board. He had just finished writing carefully under the last picture when Rick came into his room and looked over his shoulder.
“You spelled a word wrong,” Rick said.
“I did not! Mom checked all my spelling. You’re just jealous of my poster.”
“I’m not jealous,” Rick said. “I won last year. You’re the one who should be worried.”
“What do you mean?” Ben asked.
“What are you going to do when you have to get up in front of all those people and accept your award?” Rick asked.
Ben thought about that. “I won’t have to give a speech, will I?”
“You never know.” Rick shrugged and turned to leave.
“Rick,” Ben said, “were you ever scared to win?”
“Of course not,” Rick said quickly. “Well, maybe a little.” He sat down on Ben’s bed. “Do you know what helped me last year?”
“What?” Ben scrambled up next to him.
“My friend, Pete—remember him?”
Ben nodded. “The one who moved away?”
“Yeah. Pete started clapping and yelling so loud when they announced my name that it made me laugh. And I forgot my fear.” Rick smiled, remembering it. “Tell you what, Ben. When you win the contest I’ll clap really loud, and maybe even whistle.”
Finally the day came when the whole school assembled to find out who would win the school spirit contest. The room was so crowded that Ben had to look for a long time before he saw his brother. Rick grinned and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Ben tried to smile back, but he was too nervous.
The room fell silent as the principal stood up to speak. “I am so proud of each of you for the hard work you’ve put into your projects this year.” Her words echoed throughout the gymnasium. “Normally we would not award the prize to the same person two years in a row,” she explained, “but we have an exceptionally talented student at our school.” Ben’s mouth dropped open as the principal announced that Rick had won. Again. At first Ben wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Then he thought it must be a mistake. The principal had probably confused him with his brother.
Ben looked up hopefully at the principal, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking across the room to where a group of boys was shoving Rick forward. But Rick wouldn’t move. He shook his head, looking disappointed and a little frightened.
When Ben saw this, he realized his brother really loved him. Rick had wanted Ben to win. Ben could also see that Rick was scared. He couldn’t face the crowd alone. Ben wished that Rick’s friend, Pete, was still there to help him.
Then Ben had a rather frightening idea. He wasn’t sure he could do it, but he knew he had to try, for Rick’s sake. Ben closed his eyes. Then, finding his courage, he leaped to his feet and started to clap.
“Way to go, Rick!” he yelled as loud as he could.
Some of Ben’s classmates tugged on his shirt and whispered, “What are you doing? Sit down.”
“That’s my brother!” Ben whispered back. Many students stood up and clapped with him. Others patted Ben on the back and said, “You’re pretty brave, Ben!” Soon the whole room was filled with applause and cheering.
Slowly Rick walked to the podium to accept the award. He looked at Ben and smiled gratefully. Even though Ben had lost the contest, he felt happy. He knew he was a winner. Nobody could call him Bashful Benny anymore.

“An image that will forever live in my memory took place during the October 2022 general conference. I had the privilege of sitting almost directly behind the pulpit. This gave me a unique vantage point to look out and watch as words from the speakers were reflected on the faces of those listening.
“At the end of the Sunday afternoon session, our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, was speaking, and it was obvious that every single person in the Conference Center was riveted by him. Then all of the sudden, almost as if orchestrated by a conductor, half of the congregation turned their view upward and to the right, while the other half tuned their view upward and to the left.
“It was an unsettling feeling at first to see that no one was looking at the prophet anymore. Why? Because he had directed their attention toward two large screens depicting Jesus Christ’s visit to ancient America. He had directed their vision to Jesus Christ!
“The profound significance of this image was not lost on me. The role of a prophet, seer, and revelator is always to direct our vision upward, to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
“I testify that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is Jesus Christ’s Church, and President Russell M. Nelson is Jesus Christ’s prophet. Follow the prophet; He knows the way!”

Malo e lelei! I’m Lui, and I shine my light by sharing what I have with others.
I live on a big island in Tonga. I have six sisters and four brothers, and I live close to the Nuku’alofa Tonga Temple.
We have many beautiful plants and animals on our island. I’m in class four at the Ocean of Light Primary School, and science is my favorite subject.
My father grows crops, so we have plenty to eat. But many widows (women whose husbands have died) and other families don’t have their own crops. So my parents take them some of ours. I like going along to help!
The widows we visit use coconut husks to make fires to cook their food. When we take food to them, I always remind my parents to take coconut husks too. I help load the husks into the van and unload them when we get to the widows’ houses.
Heavenly Father gives me great blessings when I help others—not blessings of money but blessings of wisdom and knowledge. I always want to help and share what I have with others.

8. A medical intern has his wife and children come into the hospital for a meal each time he has a Sunday shift and they then spend a few minutes in a corner reading and discussing the gospel. The children review their Sunday School lessons. Seeing their example, other workers, not members of the Church, have begun inviting their families into the hospital to eat together on Sunday. One quiet example is making a difference in many lives.

A number of years ago in general conference, Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles told the story of Joseph Millett, a little-known member of the Church.
He lived in the early days of the Church and came across the plains with other faithful members to tame a desert and to find a new home. In those first years, food was often scarce. Winters were particularly difficult, and often the days stretched further than the food that was stored.
Joseph Millett wrote in his journal: “One of my children came in and said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks was out of bread, had none that day.
“I divided our flour in a sack to send up to Brother Hall. Just then Brother Hall came.
“Says I, ‘Brother Hall, are you out of flour?’
“‘Brother Millett, we have none.’
“‘Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you was out.’
“Brother Hall began to cry. He said he had tried others, but could not get any. He went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord, and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett.
“‘Well Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back. If the Lord sent you for it you don’t owe me for it.’”
That night Joseph Millett recorded a remarkable sentence in his journal: “You can’t tell me how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew there was such a person as Joseph Millett” (Diary of Joseph Millett, holograph, Historical Department Archives, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; cited in Boyd K. Packer, “A Tribute to the Rank and File of the Church,” Ensign, May 1980, 63).