Gospel Story Finder

Many who hold the Aaronic Priesthood realize it is a preparation for a lifetime of service. Gerardo Emmanuel Bagnati, 12, of the Floresta Ward, Buenos Aires Argentina Liniers Stake, says: “I always looked forward to receiving the priesthood. I loved asking my father and grandfather about it and listening to their experiences. When my ordination day finally arrived, I woke up early and thanked the Lord for His confidence in me and promised Him I would never willingly disappoint Him. When my father put his hands on my head and ordained me a deacon, I felt I had ceased to be a child and had become an adult. I’ll never forget it.”

“Touchdown! He saved the day!” Chris’s big brother, Evan, whooped as he jumped up from the couch and turned off the television. “Did you ever see such a great player?” Evan asked Dad.
“Not that I recall.” Dad smiled. “He’s quite a hero.”
“I’m going to put his picture on my wall,” Evan said as he headed up to his room.
Chris helped Dad pick up the popcorn bowls and take them to the kitchen. “Why did you say he’s a hero, Dad?” Chris asked. “He didn’t save someone’s life or anything like that.”
“No, he didn’t,” Dad said as he put the bowls into the dishwasher. “I guess I called him a hero because he did something important to help his team. He did something the other players couldn’t do. That’s what makes a hero.”
Just then Chris’s mom came into the kitchen, carrying a big bag of groceries.
“Let me help you with that,” Chris’s dad said and took the bag from her arms.
“Thanks.” Mom smiled. “Just in time—I was about to drop it. My hero!” she said, kissing Dad gently on the cheek.
Chris looked at Dad. “You’re a hero, too?”
“I guess so.” Dad grinned.
“Mom,” Chris’s big sister, Julie, yelled as she came into the kitchen. “Did you remember to get the ingredients I need?”
“Right here.” Mom pulled some items from the sack.
“Thanks, Mom,” Julie sighed. “You’re a lifesaver!”
“A lifesaver?” Chris mused. “Does that mean Mom’s your hero, Julie?”
Julie shrugged. “You could say that.”
“Wow—two heroes in one room!”
“I don’t know about two heroes, but there are definitely too many people in the kitchen,” Julie said. “Everyone out. I need to make cupcakes for a service project.”
Chris wandered up to the bedroom he shared with Evan. Evan was sitting on his bed, reading a magazine. On the wall behind him was a picture of the football player who had made the winning touchdown.
Chris went through his desk and found a photograph of his family. He studied it a while, then asked, “Evan, have you ever done something for someone that he couldn’t do for himself?”
Evan looked up from his magazine. “I guess so.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I shovel Mrs. Bates’s driveway when it snows. She can’t do that for herself.”
“Good. That makes you a hero.”
“A hero? I’m no hero.”
“You are to Mrs. Bates.”
A slow smile spread across Evan’s face. “Yeah. I guess maybe you’re right.” He went back to reading his magazine.
Chris put the family photo into his pocket and went down to the kitchen, where Julie was measuring ingredients into a bowl. Chris sat at the table and watched her work.
“I suppose you want to lick the bowl,” Julie said.
“No. I’m just watching.” Chris watched Julie in silence while she beat the batter and poured it into cupcake pans. After she put them into the oven, he asked, “Who are you making the cupcakes for?”
“We’re celebrating birthdays with the ladies at the nursing home tonight.”
“Can’t the ladies make their own cupcakes?”
“No. They don’t have kitchens in their rooms.”
“Oh. Did you know that that makes you their hero?”
Julie smiled. “Sure. I’m rescuing them from cakeless birthdays.” She untied her apron and whipped it around her neck to her back. “Here I come to save the day!” she yelled. She pretended to fly as she ran out of the room, her apron fluttering out behind her.
Chris laughed. He went back to his room and tacked the family photo to the wall above his bed. He stood back and looked at it. Everyone in the picture was a hero: Dad, Mom, Evan, Julie. Even their dog, Misty, saved the family garden by chasing rabbits out of the yard in the summer. Chris sighed. He wanted to be a hero, too, but what could he do?
Just then Chris heard someone calling his name. He went to the top of the stairs and saw his dad standing at the front door. “Hey, Chris,” Dad said, “want to go on a rescue mission with me? Your mom forgot to get milk at the store and needs someone to get it while she fixes dinner.”
“Sure,” Chris said. This was his chance to do something for someone who couldn’t do it for herself. This was his chance to be a hero.
As they drove to the store, Chris told his Dad about the photo on his wall. “Did you know that we have a house full of heroes?” Chris asked.
“Now that you mention it, I guess we do. But do you know why we have a house full of heroes?”
“No.” Chris frowned. “Why?”
“Because we are all trying to be like the greatest hero of all. Actually, the person I’m talking about was much more than a hero. He did something to save everyone in the world. He atoned for our sins and was resurrected, making it possible for us to return to our heavenly home. That is something that we could never do for ourselves. And He was the only one who could do it for us. Do you know who that was?”
“Jesus Christ?”
“Right.”
Chris thought about this for a minute. “Do you have a picture of Jesus, Dad?” he asked. “I’d like to put it on my wall next to our family photo.”

One December we gathered together for a family meeting. We began by asking our 11-year-old son how he would feel if on his birthday we gave presents to everyone but him. He didn’t like that idea at all. We went on to ask if there is a holiday when we give gifts to others but not to the person whose birthday we are celebrating. It didn’t take the children long to realize we were talking about Christmas. We decided to start making Christmas more meaningful by giving gifts to Jesus Christ, whose birthday we are celebrating.
Our children wondered what they could give the Savior. We talked about what He desires of us. We discussed His Atonement and His desire for us to give up our sins and be obedient. We talked about how He wants us to give of ourselves by serving and sharing our talents.
That year, we had each family member write on slips of paper the gifts they planned to give the Savior and place the slips in a box. On Christmas morning, before we opened the other gifts, we had family prayer and shared with each other the gifts we were giving the Savior for the coming year.
As the years have come and gone, the tradition of giving gifts to Jesus Christ has helped our family focus on the real meaning of Christmas and on our love and gratitude for Him.
Scott and Angelle Anderson,Bluffdale Second Ward, Bluffdale Utah Stake

Sometimes beautiful things happen that just can’t be explained other than to say, “the Lord’s hand was in it.” That’s the only way to describe what happened at the temple in Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo, on 14 March 2024.
“To God be the glory!” exclaimed Sister Harlaine Odia with tears of joy when Sister Janeen Redd showed her this picture and told the story of what happened that day:
Sister Harlaine and Sister Redd see this picture as evidence that the hand of the Lord is guiding the work they both are doing in the office of the Church’s Africa Central Area in Nairobi, Kenya.
Sister Harlaine is the area planning manager. Sister Redd is a senior missionary who is working with Sister Harlaine and a team of two other senior sister missionaries in the Area Office. The team of sisters is working to provide the benefits of the Church’s General Temple Patron Assistance Fund to members of the Church in the Africa Central Area. The fund provides financial assistance for travel, food, and lodging to members so they can receive their temple blessings in temples located far from their homes. Currently, the only operating temple within the Africa Central Area is in Kinshasa.
Additional temples are under construction in Lubumbashi, DRC, and in Nairobi, Kenya. Others have been announced to be built in Kananga, DRC; Mbuji-Mayi, DRC; and Brazzaville, Republic of Congo.
So, who is in the picture and why is it so significant to the two sisters?
The picture shows newlyweds Nicole Bukasa and Ezi Kalenda standing outside the Kinshasa Democratic Republic of the Congo Temple joyfully awaiting their sealing in the temple that day. They had traveled to the temple with their newlywed friends Tresor Tshilombo and his wife, Naomie Mukadi, from the remote town of Luputa, DRC—a distance of 1,470 kilometers from the temple—which they had traveled by a four-hour bus ride to the airport in Mbuji-Mayi and then a flight from Mbuji-Mayi to Kinshasa.
Sister Redd had traveled to Kinshasa from Nairobi with her husband, Elder Jeffrey Redd (who serves as associate area legal counsel in the Office of General Counsel for the Africa Central Area) along with David Stanford (area legal counsel) and his wife, Marie-Laure, for some meetings. While in Kinshasa they planned to worship in the temple. As the Redds and Stanfords arrived at the temple, a simple exchange of greetings turned into a conversation in which the Redds and the Stanfords were invited to act as witnesses for the sealings of these two newlywed couples.
Ezi, Tresor, and Naomie had served as missionaries in the Kinshasa DRC West Mission under the leadership of Francois M. Mukubu. President Mukubu is now the president of the Kinshasa temple, and it is he who performed the sealing ordinance for the two couples.
After asking a few questions, Sister Redd discovered that it was her team in Nairobi that had processed these two couples’ applications to participate in the General Temple Patron Assistance Fund just a few weeks before she unexpectedly met them in person half a continent away at the temple in Kinshasa. No one who knows this story believes that it is just a coincidence that the Redds and the Stanfords walked onto the temple grounds at the exact moment necessary to make the connection with the two previously unknown-to-them newlywed couples, a connection that resulted from saying “bonjour.”
The hand of the Lord is guiding His work. Many more members of the Church will be blessed to receive temple blessings and to make covenants with God in His holy house as beneficiaries of the General Temple Patron Assistance Fund.
And Nicole and Ezi’s son, who is expected to be born in May, will be born in the covenant.
As Sister Harlaine exclaimed, when she saw the photograph, “To God be the glory!”
Members who are interested in learning more about the General Temple Patron Assistance Fund can contact their bishop or branch president.

Perhaps you have all heard the story, and it is just a story, of the insensitive man who held two season tickets to the basketball games at the local university. His wife died, and a day or two later he went to the game. The seat previously occupied by his wife was empty. Someone said, “Those seats of yours must be very expensive. Couldn’t you find a member of the family to come and sit in your wife’s seat?” The man answered, “No, they couldn’t come. They’ve all gone to her funeral.”

One day I was at a service station, talking with a friend who worked there. He was filling up my car with gas, and as we stood there, a school bus went by and I heard someone call out, “Heyyyy, Bishop!” I looked up to see one of the priests in my ward calling to me and giving me the “hang on to the rod” signal. I returned the signal as the bus drove by.
The following Sunday, that boy came running up to me as fast as he could. “Bishop Stanley! Bishop Stanley! Remember last week when you were filling up your gas tank at the service station and I gave you the signal?”
“Yes, I remember it.”
“Well, the friend sitting by me said, ‘Who was that tall man at the service station that you were threatening to punch?’ And I told him what our ‘hang on to the rod’ signal really meant.”
The boy then told me that his friend wasn’t a member of the Church and that he was then able to talk about the gospel with this friend as a result of our little “hang on to the rod” signal.

When I was released from the service, I faced a critical decision. My best friend from Normandy and I had planned for a long time to visit the United States, and I had saved my money so I could go. But his plans felt through. I had to decide whether or not to go by myself. I returned to Normandy, to walk the beaches and to think.
Anyone who could have eavesdropped on my mental conversation at that time would have known I already had a testimony. “I am well off here—I have my family and friends, I feel sure of myself, and this is the most beautiful spot on earth,” I told myself. “But what if I don’t go? I could miss an opportunity to learn even more about the gospel, to really gain a testimony of it. I could give up the trip, the dream of my young years. But to give up a chance to know more about the Lord’s church?”
In the U.S. I had the opportunity to develop many close relationships with Church members. I finally began to believe I did have a testimony—I can’t forget the wonderful feelings when, each time I’d ask myself a question, I would feel the Holy Ghost enlightening my soul, clearing away the doubt. I had had difficulty understanding why polygamy had been practiced. On a bus somewhere between Colorado and Utah, I glimpsed the vision, not a visual sight, but a spiritual insight, of the men who practiced it. And I saw how it was possible for such a thing to be pure, that it had come from God. That sort of clarification continued throughout my trip in the United States.
I eventually visited some islands near Seattle, Washington. There, in a small apartment, I studied the Book of Mormon for ten days. My testimony continued to grow. The time had come to return to France, and in my heart I knew I would be baptized.
Several days after I returned home, the missionaries asked me to help them teach a lesson. The investigator was a science student, and he was struggling with some of the same questions I had confronted when I was studying the same subjects. I explained to him how I had found answers to the questions, and when we left he seemed satisfied and happy.
A few days later, the missionaries called to tell me he was joining the Church. “How about that,” I told myself. “Here I am, able to help someone else accept baptism, and not myself. This has lasted long enough!” I felt I had a testimony, but I fasted and prayed. I stayed up the whole night pleading with the Lord to seal this testimony in me. Finally, early in the morning, a sweet, peaceful calm filled my soul. I knew I had to tell the elders I was ready to be baptized.
As I rounded the last corner on my way to see the missionaries, I felt a strong force trying to keep me from going. It was like walking against a 100-kilometer-per-hour wind, which I had done before, only it was stronger. But this was a spiritual “wind,” not physical. I was just about to give up and turn around. I knew this force wanted me to doubt everything, but I finally said, “No, no. I know there’s a God.” I felt that truth deep in the roots of my soul. I knew He would battle this force for me.
I reached the chapel door, just a normal chapel door, but I had to pull with all my might to force it open. When I entered I saw some members and felt their spirit, and the opposing force was gone, broken. I felt the sweet peace in my heart again, and felt it even more strongly several days later as I was baptized and confirmed. I still feel it to this day.

As I walked into my routine doctor appointment, I was filled with excitement and hope. By ultrasound I had already seen my tiny baby’s heartbeat, but now, several weeks later, the tiny one inside me would be even bigger. Having experienced the miracle of pregnancy three times already, I never ceased to be amazed.
Ten minutes later I was crying alone in my car—the image of a still baby with no heartbeat forever imprinted in my mind.
During the days that followed, I was in a dazed stupor. I felt empty and alone. My husband had to go back to work, and our three children ran around the house as I half-heartedly fed them and tried to keep the house clean. But I was not really there. When I came home from running errands, the first thing I would do was check to see if I had any missed calls. None. I would check my email every hour. Nothing. I started wondering if my friends and neighbors cared about me. Were they even my friends at all? I didn’t notice how Satan was working on me.
I was sharing my feelings with my husband one night, and he immediately saw what was happening. He shared 1 Nephi 21:15–16 with me:
“I [will] not forget thee, O house of Israel.
“Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.”
I had learned about and studied the Atonement before. I thought I knew what it was. But I had failed to appropriately apply it to my life. Jesus had already suffered all of my sorrows. He knew exactly how I felt.
“His most exemplary act, the Atonement, required Jesus to descend ‘below all things’ (D&C 88:6) and suffer ‘the pains of all men’ (2 Nephi 9:21). Thus we understand the Atonement has broader purpose than providing a means to overcome sin. This greatest of all earthly accomplishments gives the Savior the power to fulfill this promise: ‘If ye will turn to the Lord with full purpose of heart, … he will … deliver you’ (Mosiah 7:33).”1
What better friend could I have during this tragic time than one who could surely sympathize with me? I realized I needed my Savior to help me overcome my sorrow. As I turned to the Lord, I immediately saw His love for me. I felt calm and peaceful, and I felt that Jesus understood me as I had never thought possible. He is exactly the kind of friend I was longing for in those days after my miscarriage—the kind of friend I needed most.
I know I can always turn to my Savior, not only when I need to repent of my sins but also when I need a shoulder to cry on. He is always there. When we are searching for someone to understand our pains and sorrows, let us not forget our truest friend, Jesus Christ.

The following Tuesday, a week before Christmas, I was in my room getting ready for a Young Adult Christmas party. We were going caroling and then to Tracie Heath’s for food and fun. As I pulled on my heaviest socks and stomped my feet into my moon boots, a car horn began beeping out on the street. I ignored it until Mom called down the hall, “Daniel, were you going home teaching tonight?”
“Tonight? No, I’ve got a Young Adult caroling party.”
“Looks like Bill’s out front waiting for you.”
“Bill?” I gasped, coming down the hall. “We’ve already done our home teaching this month. You sure it’s him?”
“That’s his black Ford truck, isn’t it?”
I rubbed the steam from the kitchen window and peered out. It was Bill’s truck all right. I thought his ’63 green Plymouth was ancient. His black Ford was an antique, something from the early 50s. “If anybody thinks I’m going with him tonight—” I glared out the window again. “What does he think I do, just sit around waiting for him to pick me up to …”
“Daniel,” Mom cut me short, “you don’t even know what he wants.”
“Mom, I’m almost late.”
“Just tell him. Surely he’ll understand that you had other plans.”
Grumbling to myself, I stepped out into the icy evening in my shirt sleeves and trotted out to the black Ford. Bill opened the door and leaned across the seat to talk to me.
“Did we have an appointment tonight?” I asked before he could speak. Flapping my arms and shuffling my feet against the biting cold.
“Christmas is next week,” was Bill’s simple explanation as he rubbed the bristle on his chin. “I had a couple of things for the ladies,” he added. “Would you like to come?”
“I have a Young Adult party. I didn’t know we’d planned anything.”
“It should take only a minute,” Bill said. “You’d a better grab a coat, though.” He chuckled. “This old truck ain’t got much of a heater. But I had to bring it instead of the Plymouth.” He nodded his head toward the back. “Got a little something extra for Vivian Rencher.”
I glanced in the back of the truck. A bulky object lay under a ragged canvas tarp.
“I’ll get you back for your party,” Bill went on when he saw my hesitation.
“Did you have an appointment?” Mom asked as I banged the front door and went for my coat.
“No,” I sighed, “but that doesn’t make much difference to Bill. And I’m going to freeze in that black heap of his. No heater and the door on my side doesn’t close. Dang! Of all nights!”
Bill and I didn’t speak as we drove to Sister Ballard’s place. And as I expected, I almost froze.
When we stopped in front of Sister Ballard’s place, Bill grabbed a brown paper sack from under the seat and the two of us started up the walk to the front door. I knocked once and, almost immediately, Sister Ballard pulled the door open and peered out at us. It was a moment before she focused, and then a huge smile burst upon her face and she pushed the storm door open and greeted us cheerfully, “I wondered if you’d come tonight. Well, come in.”
We took our usual places on the worn couch with the afghan draped over it. Before Sister Ballard could drop into her chair in front of us, Bill held out the brown paper sack and announced gruffly, “Some walnuts. Off my tree.”
“Why, thank you, Bill. I used your last ones at Thanksgiving. I guard them all year. I keep them in the freezer to keep them fresh.”
“They’re shelled and cleaned and everything,” Bill added, looking down at his rough, cracked hands. He rubbed them together and I could hear the dry chaffing sound. I studied them for a moment, remembering the message I’d given last month on the Word of Wisdom. Though the Word of Wisdom had been only a small part of the First Presidency’s message that month, I’d hammered pretty heavy on it. I really hadn’t needed to, not for the sisters. I suppose it had been a cruel attempt on my part to dig at Bill’s bad habit.
“Why, Bill,” Sister Ballard exclaimed, bringing me back to the present, “there must be five pounds of shelled nuts here.”
Bill shrugged self-consciously and pulled on his nose.
“It must have taken hours to do all this work. Thank you so very much.”
Bill wasn’t one to accept praise or compliments very well. Any fuss over him seemed to make him nervous, self-conscious, and tight-lipped. His only escape was to turn the focus to someone else. He jerked out his red handkerchief, blew his nose, and then to my surprise announced, “The boy’s got a Christmas message for you.”
Startled, I glanced over at Bill, who began rubbing his hands on his pants and tapping his right foot. I wanted to protest, but any protest at this stage would have been futile. With no further notice or preparation, the only thing that seemed appropriate was the Christmas story.
When I finished my choppy Christmas account, having forgotten some parts and mixed up others, I ducked my head, my ears and neck bright with embarrassed confusion. Bill pushed himself to his feet and said, “That was a mighty fine Christmas message, boy.” He coughed and added, “The boy can say a prayer before we go.”
Sister Ballard nodded her consent and I prayed. As we were leaving, Bill stopped by Sister Ballard’s woodburning stove as though remembering something. Turning back to Sister Ballard, he asked, “Them deacons did bring you your load of wood, didn’t they?” She smiled and nodded. “And it’s split, ain’t it?”
Sister Ballard hesitated. “Oh, I can take care of that fine.”
“You mean they didn’t split it?” Bill burst out, almost angry.
“Don’t worry about it, Bill. I can manage fine. I don’t use the stove that much any way. Bishop Clark keeps telling me I shouldn’t fuss with my stove, that I should just turn on the furnace. I do most of the time, but on cold nights I surely do enjoy putting my feet up next to that warmth …”
“But they didn’t split the wood?” Bill broke in.
“Oh, the neighbor boy comes over sometimes and …”
“Me and the boy will split the wood,” Bill cut in. “I got my ax in the truck if the boy can borrow yours.”
I couldn’t believe that Bill was really offering to split wood. Tonight! I had my good clothes on. And if we split wood, I’d never make it over to Tracie’s place before everyone left to go caroling. But Bill was already halfway to the truck.
A few minutes later the two of us were in Sister Ballard’s backyard splitting wood in the dim yellow light from a weak bulb on the back porch.
“What good’s a bag of nuts?” Bill muttered as he swung his ax furiously. “She can’t get warm with a bag of nuts, can she? I shouldn’t ought to’ve forgotten. I usually don’t forget, boy. I usually check up better. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what. Then I saw that cold stove. She usually has a little fire going in it. That ain’t much to ask for. These widows need taking care of. A sack of nuts and all the talk about angels and shepherds and mangers is fine, but on cold nights Martha Ballard likes wood to burn.”
I stopped chopping and stared over at Bill. I forgot my good clothes, my cold hands, my wet feet. I studied Bill for a moment, this time looking past his chapped, cracked, stained hands. When I resumed chopping, the caroling party seemed so insignificant.
Thirty minutes later all the wood was split and piled next to the back door. As we were leaving, Bill warned Sister Ballard, “Now don’t you go splitting no more wood. There’s them that can do it for you, that should do it for you.”
Sister Hatch seemed to be waiting for us. She opened the door after the first ring, her face lighted up with a smile. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. “I just knew this was the night,” she laughed, pumping Bill’s hand and leading us both into her living room. “I even have hot chocolate and fruit cake.”
“These’re for you,” Bill said, holding out another sack of walnuts.
“Oh, Bill,” she gasped as she took the sack, opened it tenderly and peered inside. “You never forget, do you, Bill?”
Bill’s nervous agitation started again and he jabbed a thumb in my direction and said hoarsely, “The boy’s got a Christmas message, and then we’ve got to be on our way. The boy’s got a party.”
Our last stop was Sister Rencher’s. The door opened before I even had a chance to knock and Sister Rencher, grinning and hobbling along with her metal walker in front of her, welcomed us inside. Once more Bill went through his ritual with the walnuts. He and Sister Rencher chatted about the weather, her new great-grandson and the horrible condition of the city’s streets. I was rapidly reviewing the Christmas story in my mind, getting ready for the moment when Bill would turn the time to me. Suddenly Bill stood and said, looking at the floor, “I’ve got a little something else for you.” Turning to me he asked, “Want to help, boy? You can hold the door for me.”
Bill went to the truck, tore the canvas tarp off some kind of chair, dragged the chair from the truck bed, and brought it up the walk. He staggered into the house, lugging a huge oak rocking chair, crafted and polished to near perfection. He set it down gently in the middle of the room, stepped back and smiled proudly. Sister Rencher just stared, unable to speak. She looked first at the chair, then at Bill, and finally back at the chair.
“When your other one broke last spring,” Bill explained shyly, “I figured I’d make you another one. I used to make them all the time, you know, my daddy being a carpenter and all. I don’t figure this one will break on you. It’s not like them store-bought things.”
Bill was finished. The smile disappeared, his words dried up, and he dropped down on the couch beside me.
Slowly Sister Rencher pulled herself to her feet and crept over to the rocking chair. She touched its smooth, hard glossy finish with the tips of her fingers. She pushed on its high back, and it began to rock rhythmically. Slowly she eased her frail body into its comforting, curved-wood grasp and leaned her gray head against its solid back. For a moment she sat very still; then she began to rock, ever so slowly, and as she rocked a smile came to her lips and huge crystal tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank you, Bill,” she whispered. “Oh, how I’ve missed my other one. But this,” she added, touching the curved arms, “would put my old one to shame.”
Bill coughed and announced suddenly, “The boy’s got a bit of a Christmas message for you.”
“Let’s have a prayer first,” Sister Rencher suggested.
“The boy can pray, too.”
“I’ll pray tonight, Bill,” Sister Rencher said softly.
The three of us bowed our heads and as Sister Rencher prayed, I understood so well why Bill Hayward had never been released as a home teacher.
“And, Father in Heaven,” sister Rencher prayed, “I thank thee so very, very much for Bill and his kindness. I thank thee for the many times he’s pushed the snow, raked the leaves, tilled and weeded the garden, and cared for my every need. He has truly been an instrument in thine hands. Oh, Father in Heaven, please bless and keep this great man.”
As soon as the amens were said, Bill nervously turned and stammered, “The boy’s got a mighty fine message for you.”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. I had a lump as big as my fist in my throat, but it wasn’t the lump that stopped me. My mind went blank. I, who had thought I knew the scriptures so well, especially compared to someone like Bill Hayward, couldn’t seem to remember anything, not even the Christmas story, at least not well enough to give it right then. The thing that did come to mind was a strange, strange parable. And it wasn’t even one that had anything to do with Christmas—or so I thought.
I wet my lips and rubbed my hands on my pant legs. “I guess I’d like to explain what Christmas means to me,” I stammered hesitantly. “At least what it means tonight.” I looked down at my hands. They were clean. The nails were clipped, the palms devoid of callouses. “There were two men that went to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a publican,” I began. “The Pharisee was clean and educated and thought himself so very wise. The publican was a laborer, with dirty, calloused hands. Both men went to the temple to pray and the Pharisee …”
When we reached my home, Bill clasped the steering wheel and stared down into the blackness beyond the piercing glare of the headlights. “It was a mighty fine message, boy,” he said. “But I don’t ever recall hearing the part of the Christmas story you gave at Vivian Rencher’s, you know about the two fellows going to the temple.” He paused. “I’m not even sure I figured out the meaning. I guess that’s what happens when a fellow studies diesel engines more than the scriptures.”
“Oh, but I think you do know the scriptures, Bill,” I answered quietly. I turned to Bill and held out my hand. I had shaken hands with Bill before but never unless he had offered his first. “Thanks, Bill,” I said huskily. “Thanks for your message,” I continued, shaking his rough hand. “It was a mighty fine message.”

For a group of young men in Nevada, a journey of 195 miles started with service. It ended with goals accomplished, lessons learned, and bonds formed.
The idea for running the 195-mile relay race came when the young men, as a Scout troop, volunteered to set up and man some stations at the race the previous year.
“We thought it was pretty cool that people were running just for fun,” says Carter M., 17. “Our group thought we wouldn’t mind doing something like that.”
A few months later, their Young Men president, Jon Wayne Nielsen, got serious about the idea and asked the boys if they really wanted to run the race. “He thought that would be something fun for us to do and something that would be a good experience,” Andrew B., 18, says. The young men agreed and decided to participate in the race.
Many of the young men had never run long distances before, so they began training a couple of months before the race. They would train most days of the week.
“Starting out we would do 25 minutes, 30 minutes, or an hour,” says Michael W., 13. “Then we started running 3 to 8 miles. Two weeks before the race, we did a qualifying run that was 10 miles, which we had to complete in order to run the race.”
Some of the Scouts did the training on their own, and others ran together. “Having other people helped a lot,” says Carson M., 15. “A lot of us thought that when we were running by ourselves, we were doing this all on our own, and it didn’t really matter. Having your team running with you is more of a motivation, because you know you’re going to be running with them in the race.”
Finally, the day of the race came, and Carter started off their two-day run at 7:30 a.m. on a Friday morning. Their team of 12 included 10 members of their Scout troop and 2 of their leaders. Each runner completed three legs of the race, ranging between 3 and 12 miles. They all ran in their Scout uniforms. They traveled in two vans when they weren’t running.
After 34 hours of running day and night, the Scouts finished the race on Saturday afternoon. The young men say the race was hard, but they enjoyed it. They were especially impressed by all the support they got from the other teams in the race.
“We were the youngest group to ever do one of these races,” Andrew says. “So it was cool to see all these people who are good runners and do this all the time come up to us and say, ‘It’s cool that you guys are doing this.’ It felt really good.”
The other thing that felt good was the sense of accomplishment the young men had from training for and completing this race.
“I think the race helped me learn that I can set a goal and actually do it,” Michael says. “It really helped me learn that I can do hard things instead of sitting around playing video games.”
The race also helped the young men get closer to the other members of their troop and their priesthood quorums.
“It’s just cool to have fun with people who are members of the Church,” Andrew says. “We all got a lot closer as a quorum, as a priesthood body. That was a bonding experience for us. We all hold the same priesthood, and we all felt our struggles together.”
Along with getting to know one another better, the young men also learned to help and support each other. “We were always there supporting each other,” Carson says. “Everything we did there, we worked as a team. We cheered on everybody as a team.”
“The most important thing I learned from that race would be to care for others around you,” Carter says. “If others need help, you help them out, because you’re going to run into people who want to hear the Lord’s gospel, and how you care for them and others will affect them.”
It may have seemed like just a long race, but these young men learned valuable lessons and skills that will help them in a more important race—the race of life.

Shauna Squires, formerly of the Crescent First Ward, Sandy Utah Crescent South Stake, and her horse Poplar’s Lightning had been together through many rodeos and competitions, and winning was familiar to both of them. Still, being crowned Miss Appaloosa America for 1978 was an unexpected honor for Shauna. And of course, Poplar’s Lightning, who had been judged the champion performance horse in both the Utah and Arizona state competitions, was with her. Shauna was a freshman at BYU when she received the honor over 27 other girls in national competition in Billings, Montana. Last September, however, she relinquished her title for another one when she became Mrs. Mike Smith in the Salt Lake Temple.

The Utah Bonneville Stake’s pioneer experience wasn’t just a trek through some of the same territory pioneers settled in after they arrived in Utah; it was also a trek through time. Many of the youth read their pioneer ancestors’ journals before going on the trek, to give them a very personal idea of what the exodus west meant to the pioneers.

“One of my ancestors came from Nauvoo to Utah,” says Candice McConkie, 17. “She had to travel alone because her husband had died. I really admire her courage and sacrifice. And because of her, I felt I could face any of the hard experiences of our trek and even some of the real hardships I might have to face later in my life.”

The stake’s Youth Pioneer Trek Council wanted their trek to be unforgettable for everyone, even those without pioneer ancestors, so they made a few rules about modern conveniences being left behind. Who would have thought that bar soap would fall into that category?

“After a while, it didn’t seem to matter if you were dirty or clean, because everyone else was the same way. You began to notice people for what they were inside instead of outside,” says Patrick Moench, 17.

And the food wasn’t much like what the youth were used to either. But that didn’t seem to matter much to anyone, especially 17-year-old Ryan Parker.

“I don’t care how the food tastes ,” he says. “I just hope there’s lots of it.”

The 1890s were not easy years to be a missionary in England. Some people there were telling false stories about the Mormons and stirring up trouble for the missionaries.
One night Sister Knight was out teaching a family with her new companion, Sister Chipman. A group of rowdies saw them and stirred up so much trouble with the neighbors by telling lies about the Mormons that a mob followed the sisters through the streets, calling them names and throwing rocks at windows and trash at the young ladies. Elder Ray Knight had been sent to walk them home, but the situation became so dangerous that three policemen had to escort the missionaries to the police station for their safety. Even though they were bruised and soiled with garbage, the sisters were not ready to give up. Instead, while they waited inside the police station for the crowd to go away, they discussed the gospel with the policemen. Later the chief of police helped the missionaries slip out the back door so that they could walk home safely.

Ever heard of a do-it-yourself musical? The Young Men and Young Women of the Kinston North Carolina Stake have. To help celebrate the sesquicentennial year, they organized, wrote, directed, and performed their own musical drama. First a youth drama specialist was called from each ward and branch in the stake, with a ward adult specialist to assist. Two workshops were held on the stake level to teach how to develop the production. Then each ward and branch selected a different time period of Church history, researched it, and wrote a script for that period. The stake drama specialist tied all the ward scripts together with narrative and musical interludes, and the musical was born! Every youth in the stake who wanted to participate either appeared on stage or helped backstage. Even moms and dads helped, and all had a terrific time.

When applying to serve as senior missionaries in Apia, Samoa, Arouma answered one of the questions, explaining, “I can walk about 15 minutes, and my husband can walk about 30 minutes before having to stop and rest, but we don’t need a wheelchair.”
Gose corrected her by stating, “I can walk an hour. Whatever the mission requires us to walk, we’ll walk. It doesn’t matter how far.”
Spend a little time with the Mata’utias and you will quickly learn that this is how they approach life. One step, one day at a time.
Gose and Arouma Mata’utia grew up in Samoa, married, and then raised their seven children, and three other children they call their own, in Australia. They also have 10 grandchildren. They say with big smiles, “Our children complete our joy.”
In 1993, they were involved in a severe car accident with six of their children. It took many months to recover from serious injuries, including brain injury, broken bones, and the loss of one of their children’s arms. They could not understand how something so terrible could happen to them, but they came to realise that they were “very blessed to survive.”
While still recovering, Gose accepted the request by Church leaders to be president of a Samoan branch in Canberra, Australia. He did that from his hospital bed for about a month, and then continued to serve as the branch president for 10 years.
After that life-changing accident, they both believed their lives were spared, and it strengthened their commitment to live the gospel. Arouma said, “We felt the need to give back to the Lord.”
They encountered more challenges when Gose suffered a stroke in 2015. After an extensive time recovering from that, their oldest daughter became sick and died three years later at the age of 38. At the time of her death, Arouma recalls, “Words came to me that Heavenly Father was telling me, ‘She is my daughter, too.’” They were comforted.
When contemplating whether to serve a senior mission, they describe their love of a scripture, Matthew 19:29, “And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name’s sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life.”
Gose and Arouma decided to serve a senior mission for the Church of Jesus Christ after President Russell M. Nelson visited Australia and spoke about missionary service. They were called to serve in 2020 as welfare and self-reliance missionaries in the Australia Sydney Mission.
Although COVID affected the world during that time, they were able to continue their mission in Sydney. They learned to teach via video calls and taught English Connect as a pilot program.
Another daughter died from cancer in 2023, also at the age of 38. The Mata’utias remember her as especially faithful. Arouma said, “She desired and continually encouraged us to serve a second mission.”
They expressed gratitude to be returning to their homeland of Samoa to serve their second senior mission. Gose said, “We will leave it to the Lord, and He will bless us and our family.”

I knew of a man who never looked up; consequently, he never lived—he just existed. Over a period of years this man became a slave to alcohol. Drink by drink he accumulated all the miserable habits and characteristics of a drunkard. He walked the streets in a stupor of mind and with an unsteady step. When greeted by friends passing by, his response was a feeble wave of the hand or an almost inaudible grunt. Physically, he was a wreck.
To avoid people and conversation, this alcoholic would stagger off the path or into the gutter, for that was the direction of his look. He seemed oblivious to the people, the things, and the events around him.
Many pitied this man who had lost health, pride, purpose, family love, and other blessings. They observed his shackled condition but did little or nothing to remove or help him remove the shackles. Others, without compassion ridiculed him.
After many years of suffering, some unselfish people helped this man work a miracle. These friends invested countless hours of loving care, much kindly persuasion, many fervent prayers, and all else required to reform the man. In the process of repentance, (1) he allowed the written word of God to nourish his impoverished soul; (2) he fixed his eyes upon a living prophet and tuned his ears to the prophet’s teachings; and (3) he also rekindled faith in himself by exercising faith in Christ.
In time he gained the confidence and strength to walk with steady stride on the sidewalk. He was successful in breaking Satan’s bonds. He straightened his shoulders, looked people in the eye, and began to converse with others.
More important, he assumed his rightful role as a loved husband and respected father. I’m told that when this man—this new man—stood in church and bore his testimony, he expressed these thoughts:
“You’ll never know how wonderful it is to recognize people by the smiles on their faces rather than the dust on their shoes.”
“You’ll never know how wonderful it is to gaze upward at a blue sky rather than downward at darkened ground.”
“You’ll never know how wonderful it is to return home from work and have your children run toward you with love, rather than away from you with fear.”

Prayer, by Walter Rane
I never prayed so much as when one of my sons reached the age of 17. He started having some doubts about the gospel, and at times he was rebellious and didn’t want to listen. My husband and I always tried to insist that he attend church, but many times he refused. We held our family home evenings, read the scriptures, and prayed as a family, but he often chose not to participate. I can’t remember how many times I knelt down to ask our Heavenly Father to touch his heart and help him continue along the right path.
Over the next two years, he had many ups and downs. Church leaders supported me and they spoke with him, but nothing seemed to be of use. Eventually he left home.
All that time I never stopped praying for him. At times my husband, tired of it, said to me, “Leave him. He has his moral agency.” But my reply was always the same: “No. I will not lose hope.”
After a time, our son came to our home. He asked my forgiveness and told me, “Mama, I want to come home.” My husband and I were wary, but after discussing it, we yielded. After he returned home, we saw his firm determination to change. He became active in the Church and participated in activities. He was later called to serve as a Primary teacher, an experience that was quite special for him.
One day I hung up a Poster from the Liahona that said, “Don’t let worries or doubts keep you from serving a full-time mission.”1 It hung in his bedroom for a couple of months, when suddenly one day he said to me, “Mama, I want to go on a mission at the end of the year.” It was marvelous. My husband and I cried and cried, and of course we supported him as he prepared to go to the temple and serve a mission. I continued praying all the time, now thanking Heavenly Father for having touched the heart of my son.
After some time on his mission, in one of his letters he said to me, “Mama, I have a great testimony of prayer, thanks to you. I know that you were praying the whole time for me, and now I am on a mission because the Lord touched my heart, not because I am all that good. Thanks, Mama. Share with the sisters this principle that changed my life.”
Now my son has served a faithful mission and participated in a marvelous work. I am very thankful to Heavenly Father for listening to my prayers all these years and for touching the heart of my son, which caused him to return to the right path.

In another stake, in a Sunday morning Primary meeting of that stake conference, I met two beautiful daughters of a faithful young Latter-day Saint physician and his devoted wife. The older child was in a wheelchair, and the younger child moved with great effort. Both of these children suffer from a degenerative disease of genetic origin thought to be progressive and incurable. According to medical wisdom, their time in this life is extremely limited. Their eyes were beautiful and clear—full of faith and love of their Savior, whose presence had been made real in their lives by loving parents and grandparents and devoted Church teachers.
To fulfill a deep desire for more children, their devoted parents have adopted two other beautiful daughters from another country. Instead of cursing God as Job was encouraged by his associates to do in the face of other faith-testing burdens, this couple has reached out to these two beautiful additional daughters, who now feel the blessing of being reared in a household of faith with love from parents whose hearts and lives demonstrate the pure love of Christ.

For those who, for whatever reason, fall into temptation and are dwelling upon unrighteous actions, I assure you that there is a way back, that there is hope in Christ. A few years ago, I had the opportunity to visit with a dear member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who went through a very difficult time in his life after committing a major transgression. When I first saw him, I could see a sadness in his eyes, accompanied by a brightness of hope in his countenance. His very expression reflected a humble and changed heart. He had been a dedicated Christian and had been richly blessed by the Lord. However, he had let a single improper thought invade his mind, which then led to others. As he steadily became more and more permissive of these thoughts, soon they took root in his mind and began to grow deep in his heart. He eventually acted upon these unworthy desires, which led him to make decisions against everything that was most precious in his life. He told me that if he had not given place to that foolish thought to begin with, he would not have become vulnerable and susceptible to the temptations of the enemy—temptations that brought so much sadness in his life, at least for a period of time.

Fortunately, like the prodigal son in the famous parable found in the gospel of Luke, “he came to himself” and woke up from that nightmare. He renewed his trust in the Lord and felt true contrition and had the desire to eventually return to the Lord’s fold. That day we both felt the Savior’s redeeming love for us. At the end of our brief visit, we were both overcome with emotion, and to this day, I remember the resplendent joy in his countenance when he left my office.

When Vyacheslav and Zoya Gulko of Ukraine began investigating the Church, their 13-year-old daughter, Kira, wasn’t thrilled. She refused to participate in missionary lessons, and when she knew the elders were coming to their home, she “demonstratively shut the door of her room,” her mother remembers.
Brother and Sister Gulko, who decided to join the Church, suspected that if they could just provide an opportunity for Kira to feel the Spirit, her heart might be touched. Because Sister Gulko’s own testimony had begun when she attended another person’s baptism, she asked Kira to come to her baptism—just to help her change into dry clothes afterward. To Sister Gulko’s surprise, Kira agreed.
“It happened!” Sister Gulko remembers. “Heavenly Father was working in a very miraculous way.” Kira did feel the Spirit, and a week after her parents’ baptism, she agreed to meet with the missionaries. She began reading the Book of Mormon. A few weeks later, Sister Gulko noticed a piece of paper hanging above Kira’s desk; written on it were the words of 2 Nephi 2:25. Two and a half months after their own baptism, the Gulkos attended their daughter’s baptism. Now, 20 years later, Kira is married. She and her husband, Dave, have been sealed in the temple and are raising their two sons in the gospel. She has served faithfully in a number of callings and has remained active in the Church.