Gospel Story Finder

There is yet another trial which, when endured well, can bring blessings in this life and blessings forever. Age and illness can test the best of us. My friend served as our bishop when my daughters were still at home. They speak of what they felt when he bore his simple testimony around campfires in the mountains. He loved them, and they knew it. He was released as our bishop. He had served as a bishop before in another state. Those I have met who were from his earlier ward remember him as my daughters do.
I visited him in his home from time to time to thank him and to give him priesthood blessings. His health began a slow decline. I can’t remember all the ailments he suffered. He needed surgery. He was in constant pain. Yet every time I visited him to give him comfort, he turned the tables; I always was the one comforted. His back and legs forced him to use a cane to walk. Yet there he was in church, always sitting near the door, where he could greet those arriving early, with a smile.
I will never forget the feeling of wonder and admiration which came over me when I opened the back door at home and saw him coming up our driveway. It was the day we put out our garbage cans to be picked up by city workers. I had put the can out in the morning. But there he was dragging my garbage can up the hill with one hand while he balanced himself with a cane in his other hand. He was giving me the help he thought I needed when he needed it far more than I did. And he was helping with a smile and without being asked.
I visited him when he finally had to be cared for by nurses and doctors. He was lying in a hospital bed, still in pain and still smiling. His wife had called me to say that he was getting weaker. My son and I gave him a priesthood blessing as he lay in the bed with tubes and bottles connected to him. I sealed the blessing with a promise that he would have time and the strength to do all that God had for him to do in this life, to pass every test. He stretched out his hand to grasp mine as I stepped away from his bed to leave. I was surprised at the strength of his grip and the firmness in his voice when he said, “I’m going to make it.”
I left thinking that I would see him again soon. But the phone call came within a day. He was gone to the glorious place where he will see the Savior, who is his perfect judge and will be ours. As I spoke at his funeral, I thought of the words of Paul when he knew that he would go to that place where my neighbor and friend has gone:
“But watch thou in all things, endure afflictions, do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry.
“For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.
“I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith:
“Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.”7
I have confidence that my neighbor made it through his trial and will face his judge with a joyous smile.

Six-year-old Taylor loved stickers—big ones with lots of colors, and little ones that you could barely see. Sometimes he put them on papers or notebooks. And sometimes he put them on himself. Once he put an orange sticker on his arm, and a blue one on his chin. Another day he put a dog sticker on the toe of each tennis shoe. Today Taylor had a new sticker. He put it on his shirt, right in the middle of his chest.
Megan, his older sister, noticed the new sticker. “Where did you get that one?”
“Off the new socks Mom bought me yesterday,” Taylor said. “Isn’t it great?”
Megan leaned close enough to read the sticker on her brother’s shirt and began to chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” Taylor asked defensively.
“It’s your sticker. It’s so—”
Taylor covered the sticker with his hand. “What’s the matter with it?”
Mom heard the discussion and came into the room. “What’s going on here?”
“Megan’s making fun of my sticker.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Megan responded. “I promise. It’s just so cute! Look at what it says, Mom.”
Mom lifted Taylor’s hand from the sticker and read aloud, “Stain-resistant sole.”
“What does it mean?” Taylor asked.
Mom answered with a smile, “It means that some kind of protection was put on the bottom of your socks so that they won’t get dirty as easily.”
“Don’t you get it, Mom? Taylor has a stain-resistant soul! S-o-u-l!” Megan chuckled again.
“I don’t want people laughing at me,” Taylor said, starting to rip the sticker off.
Mom reached out to him. “We’re not, Taylor. You see, soul can be spelled two ways. One way, s-o-l-e, means the bottom of your foot—that’s what the sock that this sticker was on protects. The other spelling, s-o-u-l, means you—your body and spirit together. So when Megan said that you have a stain-resistant soul, that’s good. It means that you are trying your best to do what is right and keep your soul—your body and spirit—clean.”
Taylor smiled at Megan and decided to leave the sticker on. “May I go outside to play now?”
“Sure, but come right home for dinner when I call you.”
Taylor ran out the back door and saw his brother’s skateboard. His brother didn’t like other people riding it without his permission, but he was away for the weekend. Great! Taylor thought. He put one foot on the skateboard, then thought of his sticker and took his foot off the board. He wanted to stay a stain-resistant soul.
He looked up and saw his best friend, Colby, running out of his garage. “Colby—wait up!”
“You’re just in time,” Colby said excitedly. “I’m going to light some firecrackers.”
Taylor stopped. “My mom says I’m not supposed to light matches unless a grown-up’s with me.”
“She won’t know. Come on—it’ll be fun!”
Taylor started to follow his friend. Then he thought of his sticker. Would lighting firecrackers keep my soul stain-resistant? No. Maybe there’s something else we can do. He said, “I don’t want to do that, Colby. Let’s play on the trampoline.”
Colby liked Taylor’s idea, so the two boys jumped on the trampoline until Taylor’s mom called him. Taylor hurried home.
“Wash your hands,” Mom reminded him as he rushed into the kitchen. He went into the bathroom and turned on the water. He saw Taffy, their cat. She hated water, and Taylor loved to tease her by splashing water at her. But just as he aimed his wet hands at her, he remembered his sticker. He couldn’t tease the cat and stay a stain-resistant soul, so he dried his hands, and ran to the kitchen.
His dad was just coming in from the other direction. “How’s my big boy?” Dad gave Taylor a hug. “Hey, what’s this on your shirt? Another sticker?”
“Oh, that’s a special sticker,” Mom said.
“He got it off his new socks,” Megan added.
“Stain-resistant sole?” Dad asked. “Why is that so special?”
“Don’t you get it, Dad?” Taylor blurted out. He thought about how he had resisted riding on his brother’s skateboard without permission, how he had resisted playing with fire at Colby’s house, and how he had even resisted teasing Taffy. “I’m a stain-resistant s-o-u-l!”

COLIN: That I really enjoyed showing Christlike love to everyone. There are a lot of hard-hearted people in the world. It’s hard for them to open up and express themselves. That’s why you’ve got to help them show love, to help them live happier lives, to help them gain that success they have always tried to find but that can come only with the eternal perspective of the gospel.
In Sydney, I was assigned to work in the immigrant areas. Every time I knocked on a door, people were a bit surprised because they thought Mormon missionaries were mostly white Americans and white Australians. They had never seen an aboriginal LDS missionary before. We told them we had an important message about Christ and tried to be polite and kind. They really liked it. They said come around again. As we came around again, those that were home invited us in and we taught them a discussion.
COLIN: I hope that for some people I did. Some of the aborigines would see me and say, “What are you doing?” I would say, “I’m a missionary for my church.” And they would say, “I want to be like you and get a good life.” I told them they should try.

It was a bitterly cold February night—so cold the Mississippi River had turned to solid ice, a blue and white highway. With the river frozen, there were no river barges, no ferryboats, no boats of any kind. Thick ice made it possible to walk out on the river, perhaps to walk all the way to the far bank.
The city of Nauvoo, resting quietly on the banks of the Mississippi, was dark—but four people were still moving about, shivering on shore, about to test the ice. Would it be strong enough to support them? Was it possible to drive a team of horses pulling a wagon across?
Kayla Walker followed in her father’s footsteps as he approached the river. Their friend, Tim McCormick, also moved out onto the ice. Even though she was excited to make the crossing, Kayla was a little scared. Their guide, Jerry McLeod, had already warned them that if they felt the ice begin to crack beneath their feet to spread out their arms to catch themselves from falling in completely. “He told us to try to stay above the ice,” Kayla says. “If you fall below, the current will carry you under the ice. That was sort of scary.”
Kayla stepped out on the ice. Exactly 150 years ago that month, the first pioneers to leave Nauvoo crossed the ice of the Mississippi, leaving behind their beloved and beautiful city with the white temple shining on the hill. Kayla, her father, and a friend had received the necessary authorization to be on the ice and reenact the pioneers’ departure.
“I was wearing three pairs of pants, a turtleneck shirt, and a sweater. Then I had on a big coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves. I had on two pairs of socks and a pair of hiking boots, and I was still cold,” Kayla recalls. “It was –30° Celsius. That’s why the ice was so thick. It was frozen 45 centimeters down. I could see cracks in it, but all you could see was more ice because it was so thick.
“It was dark. It was slippery, but we kept a steady pace. There was snow on top of the ice, so we did have some traction. We hit some slick spots where it was hard for me to keep up. I just didn’t want to stop. I wanted to get across. It took us 18 1/2 minutes.
“Brother McLeod’s wife met us on the other side in her van and drove us back home. I was very glad to get in that van with the heater on high and hot chocolate waiting. It was neat to think about my ancestors making the same crossing. Only they did it with long dresses and their children and some people who were sick. They did that, with no questions asked, because they believed in the Church. What strong testimonies they had! I think I would have gone hesitantly. I would have been asking, ‘Why can’t I just wait?’ Just doing what they did so long ago was a big testimony builder.”

Once upon a time there was a flabby heart. It sat all inflated and bunchy in the chest cavity of an inert teenager. Rather pressed for space by over-sized and flabby organs like the stomach (a terrible space hog!), the head was always elbowing the ribs for more room.
All day long this flaccid pump would heave blood through the circulatory system—lub dub, lub dub, obviously with little relish for its job. Life did have its rewards for the heart though. Between a lub and a dub it would pause for a minute to nibble on a few of the fatty acids the stomach was processing. (For all the crowding the over-sized stomach caused, the heart certainly enjoyed all the goodies it put out. Why only today the stomach had processed four milk shakes and three orders of French fries.)
The flabby heart led a rather peaceful, routine existence and was fairly happy. It could shove the blood around pretty well most of the time, and it had the body it ran well disciplined. When the heart shook with fear at the sight of a long flight of stairs, it could usually talk the person into taking the elevator. If subjected to a short run on the way to the refrigerator from the TV, it would simply pound ferociously against the chest and scream, “Stop this instant!” Usually the person stopped running immediately. And when it was once again in front of the TV munching on those delicious fatty acids, life for the heart seemed just wonderful.
Resting there in front of the TV, the heart was blissfully unaware it was part of a growing problem. For out there in front of thousands of other TV sets were many more flabby hearts, victims of a lack of exercise and physical conditioning common in today’s convenient society. Even with (and possibly because of) the currently faddish “no sweat” conditioning programs and “30 second” fitness apparatus, America’s, and the world’s, hearts continue to get flabbier and flabbier.
The flabby heart had obviously never heard of a cardiovascular endurance program; it was too busy resting. Then one day the person visited his doctor. The doctor gave him a complete physical and delivered a short but firm lecture on the dangers of being physically unfit. All the talk disturbed the heart, and as the steely cold stethoscope pressed against it, the heart somehow knew its days of delicious fatty acids and complete inactivity were drawing to a close. Resigning itself to this horrible fate, the heart heaved another batch of blood on by and considered resigning, retiring, or just plain going on strike. But instead, it began running.
The flabby heart got busy working toward physical fitness the very next morning after seeing the doctor. And at the beginning it wasn’t too enthusiastic.
The first time the person ran around the block, the flabby heart decided he’d teach the person a good lesson. He pounded and thumped as hard as he could, making only the required efforts at supplying oxygen, until the person was out of breath, red in the face, and sweating profusely. Thinking the person would forever give up such activity after such abuse, the heart was surprised to be subjected to the same treatment the next day. The person was determined to make his conditioning program successful.
Oh, and if you are wondering what happened to the flabby heart, the person kept on running. Day after day, week after week. It took quite a while for the heart to get used to all that extra work, but soon it found it could really throw the blood around through the arteries. The stomach got smaller, and the heart found it had more room to work in. After several months it was beating more slowly and efficiently and didn’t miss the excess fatty acids at all.
That was one heart that did live happily ever after.

When Greg and Niki Christensen, from Kentucky, USA, read about the Abrahamic covenant in the scriptures with their three sons, they found it difficult to explain to them. They decided as a family that each of them would study the Abrahamic covenant on their own and then share what they found.
“We got some interesting comments,” Greg says. “Our eight-year-old learned that Abraham’s name used to be Abram. His name changed to Abraham because he made a promise to the Lord to turn from sin and to live a righteous life. I was really surprised that he was able to come up with that.”
They all learned something new and had a good discussion about what the Abrahamic covenant is and what it means for Latter-day Saints today.
“We used to just go around the room and take turns reading scripture verses for our family scripture study,” Niki says. “Come, Follow Me is geared more toward teaching by the Spirit. Now when we study together, I feel little nudges from the Spirit to take our discussions in a different direction based on our family’s needs.”
Using Come, Follow Me has not only helped their family be more engaged and interested in family gospel study, but it has also helped Greg and Niki minister to the spiritual needs of their children.
“Come, Follow Me helps me teach my children,” Niki says. “It also helps me handle different challenges I sometimes have with my children. I feel more in tune with the Spirit, I listen more closely, and I’ve received promptings on how I can help each child.”
Greg enjoys the longer gospel discussions that Come, Follow Me helps generate in the family. “Our sons are all different in where they are with their gospel knowledge,” he says. “Come, Follow Me has provided a way for us to help each of them learn based on their needs. Seeing them grow in their love for the gospel and watching them figure out how they can apply gospel knowledge in their lives has been a wonderful blessing.”

Danny was always drawing doodles. He drew doodles around the pictures in his coloring books. He drew doodles on his drawing paper. Sometimes he even drew doodles on his bedroom walls. But most often Danny drew doodles at school when he should have been studying.
Miss Phillips, Danny’s teacher, wanted him to learn to read. Danny’s father and mother wanted him to learn to read. Even Danny’s little brother, Tommy, wanted him to learn to read so that Danny could read stories to him when their mother was busy with the baby. And Danny wanted to learn to read so he could read all of the books he saw on the shelves in the library.
When Miss Phillips said, “Class, it’s time to read now!” Danny took out his reading book, his marker, his writing tablet, and his pencil. But instead of reading, Danny kept his pencil busy drawing doodle drawings. Doodle here, doodle there, doodle everywhere! Before long Danny had forgotten all about learning to read.
Time went so fast when Danny was drawing doodles that he was surprised one Monday morning to hear Miss Phillips say, “Class, reading time is over and it’s time for recess now.” Danny was even more surprised to hear Miss Phillips say, “Danny, will you please stay inside while the other children go out to play?”
“Yes, Miss Phillips,” Danny answered meekly.
Oh dear, thought Danny, Miss Phillips must have seen me drawing doodles again!
Danny sat quietly in his seat and watched his friends hurry outside to play. Soon Miss Phillips asked him to come up to her desk.
“Danny, how many pages did you read today?” Miss Phillips asked.
“Two pages,” Danny mumbled.
“That isn’t very much reading, is it?” Miss Phillips went on.
“No, Miss Phillips,” Danny admitted.
“You were drawing doodles again, weren’t you, Danny?” she questioned.
“Yes, Miss Phillips.”
“Danny, I know doodles are fun, but reading is fun too and very important. I have an idea,” said Miss Phillips. “If you will spend one whole week reading during reading time and not drawing doodles, then I’ll let you teach the art lesson to the class for one day and everyone can draw doodles. How does that sound, Danny?”
Danny’s face lit up, “Oh, that would be fun, Miss Phillips! Will you draw doodles too?”
“Yes, Danny, I will draw doodles too,” Miss Phillips answered, “and we can put our pictures up on the bulletin board for all the parents to see when they come to school.”
All that week Danny worked hard. Danny read lots and lots of pages in his reading book. Whenever he started to doodle, Danny would quietly put his pencil down on the desk. Then he would look up at Miss Phillips and smile.
The next Monday Danny taught the art class and showed everyone how to draw doodles. Danny had had more practice than many of his friends, even Miss Phillips, so of course his doodles were a little better than any of the others. When all of the boys and girls were through with their doodling, Miss Phillips arranged the pictures on the bulletin board.
That night the parents came to visit. They saw the desks and books, and then they saw the bulletin board where Miss Phillips had printed the words DANNY’S DOODLES. All the doodle pictures were there.
Danny’s mother saw his doodles. “That one looks just like a boy reading a book!” she laughed.
“Yes, it does,” Danny’s father agreed.
Miss Phillips was standing nearby. Her eyes twinkled as she said, “And Danny told me today that he had decided that reading can be as much fun as drawing doodles.”

When I was called as bishop, our ward had nine subscribers to A Liahona (Portuguese). The stake president asked what my goal for increasing subscriptions was, and I told him it was to have 15 subscriptions. He challenged me to double that number to 30.
At first I believed it was an impossible goal. But I soon called a ward magazine representative, and I found that when an inspired leader issues a challenge and we work hard, we can meet the challenge (see 1 Ne. 3:7). One year and eight months later, we have 29 subscriptions. I can now see the joy of the people and the great spirit A Liahona brings into their homes.
Amarildo Martins,Parque Dorotéia Ward, Diadema Brazil Stake

She has seen this in her family. When she was 10, she was asked to give a testimony of baptism in the Primary sacrament meeting presentation. The only thing is, she hadn’t been baptized yet. Her mother had not given her permission. So Laysa wasn’t sure what she would say in her testimony, but she went ahead. Then a miracle happened. “My mother was in church that day,” says Laysa. “I didn’t expect her to be there. That day, I got her permission to be baptized.”

Most of the time Ben liked to share. He liked to share Daddy’s toast and Mom’s cookie. He liked to share Mike’s football and Anne’s book. He liked to share Max’s wagon.
But Ben did not like to share his cool cars, not even with Max. “Mine!” Ben said.
Ben filled his hands and pockets with cool cars. He hid them in the corner and under the couch pillows. If Max wanted to play with him, Ben felt angry. “My cool cars!”
One day Mom pulled Ben onto her lap. She gave him a hug and a kiss. “Does Daddy share his toast with you?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” Ben said.
“Does Mommy share her cookie with you?”
“Yes.”
“Does Anne share her book and does Mike share his football with you?”
“Yes.”
“When you play with Max, does he share his wagon?”
“Yes.”
“When we share with you, we feel happy. You feel happy too,” Mom said. “If you share your cool cars with Max, you will feel happy, and Max will feel happy. You can play together, and you won’t feel angry anymore.”
Ben stayed on Mom’s lap for a minute. Then he got down and took two of his cars out of his pocket. He gave one to Max. Ben smiled, and Max smiled. Ben didn’t feel angry anymore. Sharing made him feel happy.

Donna’s brown curls bounced as she skipped home from school. Mrs. Richards had just read the class a story about pirates who buried chests full of treasure. Some of the buried treasures had never been found, and Donna was thinking how wonderful it would be to discover one of them. Her family was going to Grandma’s house for dinner that night, and she could hardly wait to tell Grandma the story. She often talked about the olden days; now it would be Donna’s turn.
When they arrived at Grandma’s house, Donna ran straight to the kitchen. “Grandma! Grandma!” she squealed. “We learned about buried treasure today. My teacher says there are still treasures hidden away. Maybe when I get older, I can find one.”
Grandma smiled. “What kind of treasure would you like to find?”
Grandma nodded with a twinkle in her eye. “That certainly would be wonderful. Maybe after dinner we could pretend to be pirates and look for buried treasure right here.”
Donna clapped her hands. “Oh, Grandma, could we? I’ll help you clean up after dinner.”
When the dishes were washed and put away, Grandma took Donna aside and whispered in her ear. “When I was a little girl, I, too, dreamed of finding a treasure. I used to search in the attic. Shall we see if there’s any treasure up there?”
Donna could hardly control her excitement. “Yes! Yes!”
They had to climb some narrow steps to get into the dark attic. Donna held Grandma’s hand very tightly. She was a little bit afraid, but she didn’t want Grandma to know. When they reached the top of the stairs and Grandma turned on the light, Donna was disappointed. All she saw were some dusty boxes, a few cobwebs, and a big trunk that didn’t look anything like a pirate chest. How could they ever find treasure in this junk?
Donna carefully opened one of the boxes. Inside were some old toys. She took out a doll with bright blue eyes and a pink dress. “Who did this belong to?” she asked, admiring the doll.
“Your mother. It was her favorite, and she used to play with it every day. She called it Donna, and she always said that when she had a little girl, she would name her Donna too.”
Donna smiled, trying to imagine her mom playing with the doll. It made her happy to know that her mom had always wanted a little girl.
Grandma had opened another box and was looking at a large picture in a beautiful wood frame.
Standing in the picture was a red-haired girl about Donna’s age. Donna examined the picture carefully. She had seen this girl before, but where?
“Who is she?” Donna asked.
“Well, goodness,” said Grandma, “that picture does look familiar.” She searched and found a dusty mirror, cleaned it off, and handed it to Donna. “Look,” she said, “and tell me what you see.”
Donna was puzzled. What did this have to do with the picture? As she looked in the mirror, her eyes got bigger.
They were the same big brown eyes she had seen in the picture, under the same red curls. The two faces were the same!
“That’s me in the picture, Grandma! Why can’t I remember when it was taken?”
Grandma laughed. “Because that isn’t you in the picture, dear. It’s your mother. We had that picture taken when she was just about your age.”
Donna was amazed. She’d had no idea that she looked so much like her mom.
Grandma’s eyes were gleaming as she opened the big trunk. “Donna,” she said, “come see what I’ve found!” On top of the pile was the dress Donna’s mom had worn in the picture. It was white with purple flowers and white ruffles.
“Can I try it on, Grandma?” Donna pleaded. “I’ll be very careful, I promise.” After Grandma had helped her put on the dress, Donna looked in the mirror again and giggled. Now she looked exactly like Mom. They were finding some wonderful treasures, even though not of diamonds or gold.
Grandma reached into the trunk again and pulled out another picture. This time it was a small picture of a beautiful building.
“I know what that is!” Donna exclaimed. “It’s the Salt Lake Temple.”
“Yes,” Grandma said. “This picture is very special to me. When I was a little girl, my Primary teacher gave one to each of us after a lesson about the temple. She told us how wonderful it was to go to the temple and be sealed together as a family.
“She said that we could also do work for people who had died without a chance to hear about the gospel. Then she explained that in order to enter the temple, we had to go to church, pay our tithing, obey the Word of Wisdom, and keep the other commandments.
“I was so proud of my beautiful picture that I took it home and hung it right above my bed. Every night before I said my prayers, I looked at the picture, then asked Heavenly Father to help me prepare to go there. I wanted to go to the temple more than anything else. I wanted to help people like my great-grandmother, who didn’t know about the gospel. And I wanted to be married there to a good man.
“The day I went to the temple with your grandpa to be married for eternity was the most beautiful day of my life. When I see our family together, it makes me happy that we have made the right choices. We still need to keep working to be good, but it’s all worth it, knowing that we can be together forever.”
Donna smiled. “I guess we really did find a treasure today.”
Grandma hugged her. “Donna, I want you to have this picture of the temple to help you remember the treasures you will find there.”
Donna gave Grandma a big kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Grandma. You’re the best treasure finder in the whole world!”

My name is Christopher. My feet jump, jump, jump, and run, run, run, and hop, hop hop, so much that Mom calls me Chris-hopper.
On Sunday, Mom said, “Chris-hopper, it’s time to be Christopher. Tell your feet to slow down.
I told them, but they forgot.
On Monday, Mom and I went to the zoo. We saw giraffes, lions, elephants, and monkeys. Best of all, I liked to watch the kangaroos hop. I call them roo-hoppers. Then we saw a giant turtle moving oh … so … slow. I call it a no-hopper. It gave me an idea.
On the next Sunday, I put on my best clothes and my best shoes. Then I taped a little picture of a turtle on the toe of each shoe. “No-hoppers!” I exclaimed and ran to show Mom. She gave me the thumbs-up.
At church, I looked at the turtles on my shoes and said to my feet, “No-hoppers at church.” Now my feet remember to walk in the meetinghouse.
But when I go outside, I’m Chris-hopper again.

Hayden brought immeasurable joy into our lives. We cherished and adored him. But as time passed, I began to worry that he was not progressing as expected. Although specialists reassured us that he would eventually catch up, the nagging anxieties continued as I struggled to help my son.
My husband and I studied to learn all we could about Hayden’s illness. We did everything the doctors told us to do. Yet progress didn’t come.
I grew tired and frustrated. I pleaded with my Father in Heaven to help me find someone who could help Hayden, but help didn’t come. Hayden’s condition worsened. He started having seizures. We were scared. We thought we were losing him.
One night, I was up late searching for answers. I wrote Hayden a letter. I told him how much I loved him and how hard I was trying to make his life easier. I promised I would spend the rest of my life trying to get him the help he needed.
Frustration and uncertainty momentarily overwhelmed me. I knelt and asked my Father in Heaven, “Why?” I thought He had sent Hayden to me because He knew I would never give up trying to help my son. So why couldn’t I find any answers? Why did each new doctor and each new treatment lead to another roadblock? Didn’t Heavenly Father love Hayden?
I will never forget that moment. An overwhelming feeling of love suddenly embraced me. Words that were not my own entered my mind: “Jerlyn, do you think you love him more than I do?”
I froze. Time stood still. Tears flooded down my face—not out of frustration like before, but out of hope, understanding, and love.
In that one moment, everything changed. My heart softened. My questions changed. I understand now that my Father in Heaven loves Hayden with a perfect love. Hayden was sent here in a body that is suited for his needs and his opportunities for growth and learning. He has his own unique set of abilities and challenges, just like each of us. I have come to know that children with disabilities are precious and beloved children of Heavenly Father who have a special mission here on this earth.
My husband and I constantly receive answers and blessings, but they come in the Lord’s timing, not our own. We have been led to the right books, therapies, schools, and teachers to help Hayden succeed in his mortal life. We strive to search for the path that our Father in Heaven has put in place for Hayden instead of the path we wanted him to walk. We are doing all we can to help Hayden reach his divine potential and live the life his Heavenly Father has designed for him. Our understanding of Heavenly Father’s plan has been so much clearer now that we understand that Hayden was His before Hayden was ours.

On my mission, it sometimes felt like people’s hearts or doors would never open to the gospel. Especially during our hardest times, my mission companion and I would fast to bring hope and happiness into our work.
First, we would kneel in prayer, asking our Heavenly Father to help us be positive, take setbacks well, and recognize His hand in our lives and our work. We also prayed that by having more optimistic attitudes, we could better represent our Savior, Jesus Christ. Then later, when we felt tempted to fall back into negative attitudes, we would say a small prayer, asking Him to bless us with the perspective to find the good (or at least the funny) in any situation.
Although we didn’t always have more success after those fasts, we were able to feel the Spirit more and kick negative feelings to the curb—usually through plenty of jokes and laughter.

Mom took Anna shopping for a new dress.
How about this one?
No, thank you.
All right, do you like the yellow one with flowers or the red one with dots?
But you like these colors. What would you like instead?
I want one of these dresses so I can look like the missionaries.
OK. Let’s see if we can find a dress in your size.
Anna loved the two sister missionaries in her ward. They shook her hand at church, they smiled when she waved at them on the street, and they prayed with her family when they came to dinner.
On Sunday, Anna could hardly wait to show the missionaries her new dress. When she saw them at church, she twirled around for them.
I look just like you now!
You do look just like us.
And you don’t just look like a missionary; you are a missionary!
Your mom told me you’ve been praying for us all week like we asked you to. And look! We brought someone to church today. Your prayers have been helping us.
Thank you, missionary Anna.

During a sacrament meeting in Piura, Peru, in 1972, a speaker who was discussing the importance of family history work kept looking at me. At the end of his talk, he surprised me when he announced, “I know that Brother Rosillo is going to do this work.”
I had been a member of the Church for less than a year, but I set a goal to get started on my family history—not because of what he said but because I felt a desire to do so. I obtained a four-generation pedigree chart and started by interviewing my parents and relatives to find out what they knew. Each time I worked on my family history, I prayed and asked the Lord for help.
To find the death dates of my maternal great-grandparents, I traveled to the town of Zorritos, in northern Peru, where they had been buried. The cemetery was on the outskirts of town, and most of the dead had been laid to rest in vaulted compartments.
I entered the cemetery and started looking, but I didn’t find anything. I then decided to go to town to ask a cousin if she was sure that our great-grandparents had been buried there. When she said yes, I told her, “Then I’m not leaving until I have those dates.”
I returned to the cemetery and began a methodical search, walking down every vault aisle and reading every inscription. I still couldn’t find their vaults, so I knelt and asked the Lord to help me. Then I searched again—but with the same results. I was tired, it was getting late, and I needed to leave so I could do other research I had planned.
“Well, I did my part,” I thought to myself. I would have to leave without accomplishing my goal.
Ready to leave, I turned toward the front gate. But just as I took my first step, I felt two hands take hold of my head from behind and turn it toward a certain spot. My eyes rested on a small, dirty headstone that was level with the ground. I looked behind me to see who had grabbed my head, but no one was there.
I walked to the headstone, lay on the ground, and cleaned off the inscription. With great gratitude, I read the information I was looking for: Isidro Garcia Rosillo, died August 1, 1934. Francisca Espinoza Berrú, died January 31, 1954.
My ancestors’ long wait to receive their saving ordinances ended in 1980. That was when my wife and I went to the São Paulo Brazil Temple to receive our endowments. At the temple I was sealed to my wife and baptized for my deceased loved ones.
As I entered the baptismal font, I remembered the small headstone at the cemetery. I went down into the calm waters knowing the Lord had guided my steps as I searched for my ancestors.

“Owen, please be good for your babysitter, Marissa, tonight,” Mom said as she put on her coat. “Dad and I won’t be back from our date until after you are asleep, so we will see you in the morning.”
Mom and Dad gave Owen a big hug and left.
Marissa and Owen had fun playing board games and racing Owen’s favorite toy cars. After dinner, Marissa asked, “What game would you like to play before bedtime, Owen?”
“Let’s play hide-and-seek! Ready, set, go!” Owen shouted as he ran to his favorite hiding spot.
“Ready or not, here I come,” Marissa called.
She searched in many different hiding places: under the bed, in the closet, behind the couch. Then the curtains moved, and she saw ten little toes peeking out from under them. “I found you!” she said with a smile as she opened the curtain.
“Let’s play again!” Owen said.
“We can’t play again, Owen. It’s time for bed now. Brush your teeth and put on your pajamas, please.”
“Not yet! I don’t want to go to bed,” Owen said.
“I know, but big boys like you need sleep.”
Owen ran into the living room and picked up one of his cars.
“Come on, Owen,” Marissa said. “It’s time to get ready for bed.”
Owen stomped his foot and started crying. He kept crying as he brushed his teeth and put on his pajamas. After Marissa had read a bedtime story and Owen prayed, he noticed that Marissa looked sad.
“What’s wrong?” Owen asked.
“You didn’t listen to me when I told you it was bedtime,” Marissa said.
Marissa turned out the light and closed the door to Owen’s bedroom. As he lay in bed, he began to feel sad about not listening to Marissa. He said a prayer again, asking Heavenly Father what he should do. He felt the Holy Ghost tell him to say he was sorry.
Owen went to Marissa. “Marissa, I’m sorry for not obeying you and for making you sad.”
“Thank you for saying sorry,” Marissa said. Then she gave him a big hug and tucked him back into bed.

The Church is well-known for its missionaries — well-dressed and cheerful young men and women, serving the community, often in lands far distant from their homes.
One of these missionaries is Elder Thomas Holton, born in Dublin, Ireland in 2001, and brought up in County Westmeath. However, because of COVID-19, his story is somewhat different.
Like countless others before him, Thomas had an ambition from his early years to serve a mission. He prepared diligently and faithfully. He was baptised by his father, also Thomas, when eight and ordained an elder by him in spring of 2019. Not long after, with the endorsement of his local leaders, he applied to be considered for full-time missionary service.
In October that year, he received a response. He was invited to serve in the far-off country of Zimbabwe, starting in March 2020, before which, he would spend a few weeks in a missionary training centre.
He looked forward to this with great excitement, but the global COVID-19 epidemic meant that things did not turn out as anticipated. For a start, Elder Holton was one of a dozen young people to attend the first ever virtual missionary training centre in the Church. In his own words, “This was a great occasion”. Then, when it became apparent that travelling to Zimbabwe was not going to be possible in the short or medium term, he was assigned to the Manchester area in the UK. He was excited about this because both of his parents had served their missions in England. But due to COVID-19, that expectation was also short-lived.
The solution came from an initiative, recently announced by the First Presidency of the Church, which focused on providing volunteer opportunities for young people who are unable, for whatever reason, to serve in the traditional way. Called ‘service missions’, they allow young women and young men to continue to live a consecrated life at home, while working in the Church and local community.
According to materials sent with a First Presidency letter, “Service missions are acceptable offerings to the Lord when a proselytizing mission is not possible. … All missionaries represent the Lord and carry out His work.”1
Elder Holton has demonstrated both courage and faith. He has been a pathfinder, ushering in a new generation as the first male service missionary in the whole of Ireland. He expects to have a transformative experience as he serves as the Saviour did. He acknowledges the support, example and love of his family and local leaders, including Mark Coffey, president of the Church’s Dublin Stake.
“The range of service prospects is remarkable, and I feel that this is a great opportunity to serve the Lord, help in the Church, cooperate with the community, and develop skills. Above all, serving a mission, of any kind, is a joy, because I get to be on the Lord’s errand. Among other things, I am teaching an online scripture class for teenagers, helping with financial auditing within the stake and volunteering where I can within the community. We are also implementing the JustServe programme locally and I’m heavily involved with that. And when the temples of the Church reopen fully after COVID-19, I intend to be working there regularly.”
Note

The other day my mom and brother and I went to the aquarium. We were looking at the sea horses when my brother saw a little boy crying. My mom asked him if he was lost. He said he couldn’t find his mom. My mom comforted him. Then we started looking for his mom, but couldn’t find her. Finally we took him to a worker. After a while we saw the boy again. He was with his mom. The worker helped him find her. I felt a good warm feeling because we had helped the little boy. I knew it was the right thing to do.

Though few in number, Saints in the Galapagos Islands, located off the coast of Ecuador in the Pacific Ocean, are strong in faith. In September the members saw the completion of the islands’ first meetinghouse.
The rented building where the Galapagos Islands Branch previously held services, referred to as “el Castillo Blanco” by the members, wasn’t large enough to hold sacrament meeting in any single room, so members had to meet in three rooms at one time.
When Elder Floyd and Sister Susan Baum, the senior missionary couple assigned to the islands, first entered the new building, they were humbled to tears. “It is absolutely beautiful,” said Elder Baum. “The workmanship is of the highest order.”