Gospel Story Finder

I made my first covenant on November 13, 1977. I don’t remember much about my baptism, but I do remember Elder Pistone helping me into the water and Elder Morasco confirming me while my hair was still wet. I also remember the joy I felt as new ward friends gave hugs and kisses in the Argentine way and the strong desire I felt to be a faithful daughter of Heavenly Father.
Young Sister Spannaus (middle) with her parents (left), her sister Silvina (far right), and Elder Morasco.
Later I realized that the joy I felt came from the gift of the Holy Ghost. I learned that as I faithfully kept my covenants with God, the Spirit would be with me. The Holy Ghost is just one of the powerful blessings that come from a covenant relationship with God and Jesus Christ.

On one occasion, I was to interview a man on behalf of the First Presidency for the restoration of his priesthood and temple blessings.

After his marriage in the holy temple, and after having three wonderful children, the man was unfaithful to his wife and his sacred covenants. A single woman became pregnant and wanted an abortion.

The husband’s saintly wife pleaded with the woman to have the baby and promised that she would raise the child, once he was born, with her own children.

The single woman thoughtfully agreed not to end the pregnancy.

It had now been 10 years. The humble sister sitting in front of me loved the boy as her own and told me of her husband’s efforts to make amends and to love and care for her and the family. The father wept as she spoke.

How could this noble woman of God take a child as her own who could be a daily reminder of the unfaithfulness of her husband? How? Because she found strength through Jesus Christ and she believed in the sacredness of life, the holiness of life. She knew the unborn child was a child of God, innocent and pure.

I want to conclude with one final story about him. This account comes from Elder Marlowe Kent Ashton, a missionary that served in Tahiti from 1962 to 1965.

And one quick side note to all of you missionaries and future missionaries—please make sure to record these stories. Remember, everyone has a story and those stories matter. You don’t know how grateful I am to have these words about my great grandfather.

Elder Ashton said, “In 1964, Elder Thomas S. Monson, youngest member of the Council of the Twelve Apostles, was assigned to oversee the missions of the South Pacific. When he visited the French Polynesian Mission in Tahiti, I, one of the missionaries there, was asked to translate for him at a special conference where he would talk to the members and missionaries in the capital city of Papeete. At the end of the conference, we all stood to sing “We Thank Thee Oh God for a Prophet.”

During the song, Elder Monson walked down into the audience to stand by an old man in shabby clothing standing next to one of the pews. He put his arm around the man, and we all sang this song in French, Tahitian, and English. Although President Monson could not see what was happening, I was standing where I could see many members of the congregation shedding tears as they watched an apostle of the Lord standing by one of the great and most beloved members of the Church in Tahiti. His name was Tahauri Hutihuti.” 6

When I was preparing for this devotional, I saw that President Monson even shared part of this story when he was here in Laie in January 1999 at a BYU–Hawaii devotional. Over the years, I had heard President Monson share this story in General Conference and a couple of other talks. I’m going to finish the rest of the story in President Monson’s own words:

“As I said a tender good-bye to the Tahitians, each one came forward, placed an exquisite shell lei about my neck, and left an affectionate kiss upon my cheek. Tahauri, who did not speak English, stood by my side and spoke to me through an interpreter. The interpreter listened attentively and then, turning to me, reported: "Tahauri says he has no gift to bestow except the love of a full heart." Tahauri clasped my hand and kissed my cheek. Of all the gifts received that memorable night, the gift of this faithful man remains the brightest.” 7

Preparing to decorate our Christmas tree, I unpacked a box filled with Christmas decorations that I hadn’t seen or used in several years. As I pawed through the Christmas lights and linens, I discovered a dress box filled with Christmas ornaments I had collected when I was single and teaching school. I discovered a plain, cross-stitched ornament that simply said “Christmas Open House—1984.” My mind raced back to that year. I was unmarried and had apprehensively moved from a young single adult ward to a family ward.
I love the Christmas season, but some had been very lonely for me. Being in my 30s, single, and not having children, I sometimes felt left out. It was easy for me to feel sorry for myself, falling back into what I called the “poor little old me syndrome.” That particular year, 1984, I remember making a conscious decision to conquer the syndrome, to look beyond myself and see what I could do to make Christmas joyful for others.
I was relatively new to the ward and thought that opening my modest apartment to members of the Relief Society would help me celebrate the holidays and become better acquainted with the sisters.
As I reminisced about that open house, I remembered the small Christmas tree decorated with my box of ornaments, the smell of the shortbread cookies my single friends helped me bake, and the sweet taste of Mom’s “white Christmas punch” I served to the guests.
That conscious decision in 1984 to “lose my life” by looking outward was indeed a turning point in “finding” myself. As I pondered the past, I realized that many, in turn, had followed our Savior’s words and lost their life for me. Christmas ornaments had become a sweet reminder of Christlike friends.

Hope was a little Pilgrim girl who lived in a log cabin with her family. Although she wasn’t eight years old yet, she could do many things to help around the house. She could rock the baby’s cradle. She could wash dishes, brush the ashes back from the hearthstone, and churn the cream in the wooden churn until the golden butter chunks sloshed in the buttermilk. She could do these things and more. Sometimes she even helped with sewing hems in towels.
The sewing had to be done by hand, so Hope’s mother showed her how to hold the needle, push the shiny point into the cloth, and pull it carefully out again to make a stitch that would not pucker the cloth.
Hope didn’t like to sew. “The needle pricks my hand,” Hope complained to her older brother, John. “I wish you had to sew. You get to be outside carrying the firewood to the shed. You don’t have to make silly stitches line up in a straight row! I hate sewing!”
John laughed. “Wood splinters prick too. And carrying wood isn’t fun. But since you hate sewing, you won’t be making a quilt block for the new schoolmaster’s quilt, will you?”
“Quilt for the schoolmaster? I know nothing about it.”
“I guess no one told you because your sewing isn’t good enough. The women and some of the older girls are going to make quilt blocks and then put them together for the new schoolmaster. I heard Dame Blodget say that all finished blocks are to be put in a box at the church entry so they can be joined to make the quilt. Mother is so busy she can’t help; it’s too bad we haven’t a girl in our family who can sew well enough to make a quilt block.”
When John left to do his chores, Hope sat still for a long time. She frowned and tapped her foot fretfully against the wooden floorboards for awhile. Then she got up, hunted for some scraps of material from her mother’s sewing box, and rummaged about for thread. “I can sew a block, even though John thinks I can’t. I can and I will! I’ll put four little pieces together, and I’ll make a yellow flower right in the middle, and it will be beautiful!”
Each day whenever she had time, Hope worked on her quilt block. She said nothing about it to anyone. She worked only when she was left alone to tend the baby or when she was outside, perched on a log under the big fir tree.
Hope worked carefully to join the four small pieces together. But then it seemed that the yellow flower just didn’t want to be made. She pricked her fingers, and the yellow stitches went this way and that instead of coming out smoothly and evenly from the center. Again and again Hope pulled out the stitches and put them back in. When the block was finally finished, tears ran down her cheeks as she looked at it. “It’s horrible! John was right, and this block isn’t even clean anymore.”
Finally Hope wiped her tears, wadded her work into a ball, pushed it into a crack in the fir tree’s bark, and went back to the cabin.
It was almost a month later when John came into the cabin and said, “Hope, the schoolmaster’s quilt is all finished. It’s spread on a table at the meetinghouse. Come see it.”
“I don’t want to see it,” Hope answered as she turned away. “I don’t care about a silly old quilt.”
“Mother says it isn’t kind or respectful not to admire the work of others,” John answered. “If you aren’t jealous of good sewing, you’ll come.”
“Oh, all right. I haven’t anything else to do right now,” Hope said. “I’ll go.”
When she and John entered the meetinghouse, Hope saw the quilt spread on the table. It was made with rows of quilt blocks joined together. It looked drab at first glance, but as she drew nearer, Hope’s eyes opened wide, and she gasped. A bright yellow glob in the middle of the quilt was all she could see. “My block,” she cried. “How did it get—?”
John grinned. “I found it,” he said. “I found it in the tree and took it to Mother. She washed it and brought it to the church. And do you know what, Hope? The new schoolmaster said he’d rather have that bright block made with a little girl’s hands than all the rest put together. He’s proud of it.”
“Oh, John!” was all Hope could say.
“I’m proud too,” John added. “And I think that when you grow up you’ll probably be the best seamstress in the whole country.”
Hope laughed happily. She tucked her hand into John’s bigger one, and they hurried home to tell their mother all about the schoolmaster’s quilt!

Ellie loved hugs. Hugs from Dad. Hugs from Grandma and Grandpa. Hugs from Mom. Hugs made her feel warm. And safe. And happy.
That’s why Ellie hugged Mom during church. She loved sitting on Mom’s lap. Mom always held her close.
Then sacrament meeting ended. It was time for Primary. Ellie loved Primary. She was a big girl now. Three years old! She even had her own scriptures!
But today Ellie just wanted to keep hugging Mom forever.
Mom carried Ellie down the hall. In the Primary room, Mom sat Ellie down on a chair.
“Can I go with you?” Ellie said.
“No,” Mom said. Her voice was kind. “You need to be in your class,” she said. “And I need to be in my class.”
Mom kissed Ellie’s cheek. Then she walked out the door.
Ellie felt tears rolling down her cheeks.
She thought about Mom holding her. Mom always held her when they read the Book of Mormon. They usually read with the family. Sometimes Ellie and Mom read by themselves.
Ellie picked up her Book of Mormon. Inside was a picture of Jesus.
Ellie closed the book and hugged it. She felt like she was hugging Jesus. She felt warm. And safe. And happy. It was the best hug ever!
What helps you feel better when you are sad?

I had always planned to go on a mission. In the spring of 1950, I was eighteen and finishing my sophomore year at the University of Utah. I was studying for my final tests when my father, who was also my bishop, came into my room and asked me, “Are you ready to go on your mission?”

I said, “Yes, Dad, I am.”

He asked, “Is your life in order?”

I said, “Yes, it is.”

“Good,” he said. “You’ll leave in two months.”

I immediately submitted my papers and soon received my call from President George Albert Smith. Before I reached the British Isles Mission two months later, the Korean War had started and there were restrictions on the number of young men who could serve missions. If I had waited to go, I might not have been able to serve a mission.

It was a bright, clear morning, and I was preparing to give a bridal shower. I love giving parties—any kind, any time, any number of people. Why, then, couldn’t I shake this black heaviness that kept threatening to reduce me to tears? A recent family problem had brought my husband and me many sleepless nights and much despair, and we had been pleading with the Lord for help.
Although I had offered silent prayers all morning, I could not suppress my anguish. Past experience had taught me that a kind Heavenly Father could lift me from the depths when I was sufficiently in tune. But there was little time left before I would need to have pulled myself together to look after my guests.
Only an hour before the party, I looked up to see the Relief Society compassionate service leader coming up the path. She looked at me for a long moment and said, “I felt I needed to come see you this morning.” My first thought was that there must be some problem. I was the Relief Society president, and I knew I must take whatever time was needed.
Then Norma’s arms were around me. She held me and told me how much she loved me. This dear woman had been quietly putting her arms around sisters in need for a long time. Many had recounted their joy at having her appear miraculously when they needed her most.
Now I was encircled by her love when I needed it most. The tears I had been fighting all morning ran freely. But what had been tears of desperation and pain now turned to the sweet release that cleanses the soul and brightens the outlook.
Ten minutes later she was off down the walk, and I knew that an angel had ministered to my needs that day.

Recently a mission president talked with an 89-year-old investigator who kept putting off joining the Church. The mission president said, “Do you believe the gospel is true?” The investigator said, “I know it is true as well as you do.” The president said, “Do you believe that Joseph Smith was a prophet?” The investigator said, “I also know that as well as you do.” The mission president said, “Then why don’t you get baptized?” The investigator said, “Don’t rush me. I’ll let you know when I am ready.” He is already 89. Think of the blessings he has already lost by procrastination.

While growing up, I liked to hunt and fish. When I was about 10, I received a bow and arrow set for Christmas. A few days later, I asked my mom if I could go hunting with my bow and arrows in the red sand hills behind our house. She said OK, but to be home before dark. A rabbit soon jumped out in front of me. I shot one of my arrows at it, but missed. My bow and arrow set came with only five arrows, so I really wanted to find the one I had shot. I looked and looked, but couldn’t find it.

By then the sun was getting low, and I knew I had to get home soon. So I decided to do what I’d been taught to do if I needed help. I knelt down in the sand and asked Heavenly Father to help me find that arrow. When I opened my eyes, there it was, caught in a bush right in front of me. That was the first experience I can remember in which I really had a clear answer to my prayers. It was a strong beginning for my faith in the Lord and in the power of prayer.

A friend of ours in South Africa shared how she came to this realization. When Diane was a new convert, she attended a branch outside of Johannesburg, South Africa.
One Sunday, as she sat in the congregation, the layout of the chapel made it so that the deacon did not see her as the sacrament was passed. Diane was disappointed but said nothing. Another member noted the omission and mentioned it to the branch president after the meeting. As Sunday School began, Diane was invited to an empty classroom.
A priesthood holder came in. He knelt down, blessed some bread, and handed her a piece. She ate it. He knelt down again and blessed some water and handed her a small cup. She drank it. Diane had two thoughts in rapid succession: first, "Oh, he [the priesthood holder] did this just for me," and then, "Oh, He [the Savior] did this just for me." Through the sacrament, Diane felt Heavenly Father's love just for her.
Elder Renlund: Her realization that the Savior's sacrifice was just for her helped her feel close to Him and fueled an overwhelming desire to keep that feeling in her heart--not just on Sunday but every day. She realized that although she sat in a congregation to partake of the sacrament, the covenants she made anew each Sunday were individually hers. The sacrament helped--and continues to help--Diane feel the power of godly love, recognize the Lord's hand in her life, and draw closer to the Savior.

“No way!”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“That’s never going to happen!”
That’s what Andrea, Erick, Kristofer, Suzett, and Yuridia of Provo, Utah, might have said if you had told them they would play the piano for their next Primary sacrament meeting presentation. After all, only one of them had ever played the piano before!
But their Primary pianist, Sister Perry, gave them the challenge—and they were willing to accept it.
Once a week, each child had a piano lesson with Sister Perry, except for one child who already had a teacher. At home they practiced on electric keyboards. Soon they were learning simplified versions of the songs for the sacrament meeting presentation. They also practiced in Primary as other children sang along.
Finally, the big day came. Each child played one or two songs. Were they nervous to play in front of the whole ward? Definitely! But that didn’t stop them.
“I felt really nervous,” Kristofer said, “but I kept having faith.”
Thanks to their faith and hard work, everyone did well that day. And the best thing about it?
“It feels good to be able to help in church,” Andrea said. “It’s a great blessing for me.”
Now the children can play during family home evening, at baptisms, and when their families sing in sacrament meeting. Awesome!

As I looked around the classroom into the faces of self-conscious but eager 12-year-old girls, I thought of the first line of the Young Women theme: “We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us.”
I wondered, “How do these young women know Heavenly Father loves them?” So I asked them.
Many bowed their heads or nervously shuffled their feet, not wanting to be called on. It was obvious to me they needed some time to think about the question and perhaps some privacy for their response. “Think about it throughout the lesson,” I said.
At the conclusion, I handed out pieces of paper and had the young women write anonymously how they knew that Heavenly Father loved them. As they struggled to write, I heard such comments as “This is so hard” and “I’m not sure I do know.” I was particularly struck by Jocelyn, who had been in tears through most of the lesson. When I privately read their answers, I knew which crumpled paper was hers. She said simply, “Because He saved my mom.”
Her mother is one of my dear friends, and I too had been fervently praying for her. She had just successfully undergone surgery for a heart condition and was about to be released from the hospital when an artery in her spleen burst. Within minutes she was at death’s door. A team of doctors feverishly worked to revive her enough to prepare her for emergency surgery. Miraculous is the only way to describe her recovery. It was an answer to many prayers, including Jocelyn’s and mine. It was a powerful witness of God’s love.

“A brown butterfly to land on my hand,” my three-year-old squeaks with excitement. His response is an innocent reply to my offhanded question, “What do you want for Christmas?”
I mutter a hesitant “We’ll see” before putting him to bed, relishing the rare moments I get to spend with him. I’ve been too out of sorts to be present most of the time.
The unceasing screams of his sister, suffering from colic, keep pulling me into the black hole of postpartum depression. I feel like a shattered piece of china held together with tape—sharp, broken, and barely hanging on. I don’t want my bitter feelings to spoil my son’s excitement for the season.
I feel the weight of his answer on my shoulders. A brown butterfly had landed on his hand while we were taking one of our daily walks in the cool air of early spring. He talked about it for weeks. It is still the highlight of his short life.
I want to make his wish come true and see in his face some of the joy I desperately want for myself. I go to sleep praying for peace and relief, feeling that this is going to be a harsh Christmas for us both.
The next morning, we awake to a beautiful day—perfect for our annual Christmas Eve hike. My son prepares with more gusto than usual, talking about when and how his butterfly will arrive.
“It’s a little too cold,” I say as I zip up his coat and pull a hat over his head. “Perhaps the butterflies will all be staying warm inside their homes.”
“Not my butterfly,” he laughs, undeterred.
I put my daughter in the baby carrier and say a silent prayer: “Please don’t let him be too disappointed.”
As we walk, my son looks back and forth among the trees, more eager with each step. The cold wind shakes the leaves. He spins as they fall to the forest floor, where he stomps on them with a big crunch of his boots. To him, the world is full of magic, just waiting for his wish to come true. But I don’t see any butterflies.
We near the end of the trail. As I start to call him home, I hear his joyful laughter. I turn to see him by a tree holding his finger out as a small brown butterfly dances around him. With the faintest touch, they meet, and he smiles. His eyes find mine, and I feel warmth spreading all over me, marveling at the little miracle I’ve just witnessed.
I clap my hands in celebration and praise. God was listening. The weight of my sadness eases, and the Sprit witnesses that He is aware of me. He had heard my pleading prayers for strength and relief during tiring nights and depressing days.
Even small things, like finding a butterfly on a December day, prove that Heavenly Father is watching over my family—reminding me that miracles still happen when we have the faith of a child.

I want to tell you about an experience I had where someone chose to be an everyday disciple and it had a great and lasting impact on me. It was my freshman year in college, here at BYU–Hawaii. It was the start of Winter semester and I was really struggling to find friends. I would try to talk to different people, but nothing ever really clicked for me. That was until one girl saw me working out and asked if she could join me sometime. I said sure, thinking it was a little strange, but oh well. I thought it was just a passing comment, not an actual request she was going to follow up on. But, little did I know, she started to work out with me. We had a class together so we began to talk outside of our workouts. Then I discovered that she was in my ward, so we started sitting together. At the moment, it was simple and sweet and I appreciated it a lot. What a blessing it was to have a friend. 5 years later I want to tell you about the impact that that girl had on me. She became my best friend. We went on missions at the same time. Came back at the same time. Made a very sad transfer to BYU in Provo at the same time. We became roommates. And to this day we have remained extremely close.

I think of my friend Elizabeth, whose life-style and habits took her away from the Church. After more than ten years, she had a desire to return and “see.” As she drove by a chapel one Sunday morning she felt impressed to come in. She joined our ward that same day. Her dress and her experiences made her obviously different from the rest of us, and she worried that she would never fit in. But her new friends met her far more than halfway, included her in their activities and found ways to use her artistic talents in building the kingdom. Her visiting teachers were 100 percent faithful; they loved Elizabeth, rather than their assignment. Now in different cities, they still keep in touch to bless her life.
The time came when Elizabeth was accepted back into full fellowship in the Church and called to teach Relief Society. The evening she was sustained in her new calling, I noticed she left the chapel quickly. I called her, worried that perhaps she was uncomfortable with the calling.
“No,” she said. “I had to run home to tell my mother. When I told her the good news, we danced around the kitchen together. My mother kept repeating, over and over, ‘I knew one day you would teach Relief Society.’”

“Do you know what I like best about Christmas?” five-year-old Sara asked, her big brown eyes shining.
Her mother stopped wrapping gifts. “Santa?”
“I like Santa, but the most fun is wrapping presents for you and Daddy and Mike and Tim.”
Mom was pleased with Sara’s answer. Tim and Mike, her older brothers, had long lists of expensive items they wanted. Sara had no list. She was more excited about the gifts she was wrapping.
“Hi, everyone!” Dad called. “I’m home early so we can go get our tree.”
“Hurray!” Sara shouted. “Then we can decorate it.”
But later, when Mom pulled out the boxes of ornaments, both boys groaned.
“Do we have to do that tonight?” Mike asked. “I have math homework.”
“Me too,” Tim moaned.
“How about helping for just a half hour?” Dad suggested.
While her brothers argued about where decorations should go, Sara quickly and quietly placed red bulbs on the tree.
“Sara,” Tim said, “your bulbs are all at the bottom. That doesn’t look right.”
Sara’s eyes lost their sparkle.
“We need lots of bulbs on the bottom,” Dad said. “Sara’s friends aren’t as tall as you boys, and when they visit us, we want them to see lots of bulbs.” He handed Sara another bulb, and a smile lit up her face.
That night at supper, Mom said quietly, “I think we’ve all lost the spirit of Christmas—that is, all of us except Sara.”
“Oh, Mom,” Mike protested, “we all decorated the tree. And we’ve bought most of our presents.”
“I think Mom’s talking about the real meaning of Christmas,” Dad said. “And she’s right. It’s like we’re getting ready for a big party, but we’ve forgotten whom the party is for.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “We all know it’s to celebrate the Savior’s birth,” he murmured.
“But, Tim,” Dad persisted, “how was your birthday party different from the one we’re planning for Jesus Christ?”
“Well, Jesus isn’t here to get His presents.”
“What presents?” Dad asked.
“How would you have felt if all your friends brought presents for each other but no presents for you?” Mom added.
“That wouldn’t have been much of a party,” Tim admitted.
“Well,” Dad asked, “do you have a gift for the Savior on December 25th?”
“You’re trying to tell us that we need to buy gifts for Jesus?” Mike wondered.
“You don’t buy gifts for Jesus,” Tim interrupted. “You give Him gifts in other ways—like doing something good for someone.”
“Now you have the idea,” Dad said. “Do you think there’s still time to do something good for someone else?”
“It’s over a week before Christmas,” Mom put in. “Sister Altos told me about a family across town whose father is out of work and who have huge medical bills to pay. Shall I find out more about them and see if we can help them this year?”
“Won’t they be embarrassed to have us take them presents?” Mike asked. “What if the kids go to our school?”
“We could do this anonymously,” Dad said. “We could sneak our things for them onto their doorstep on Christmas Eve, and they’d never have to know who did it.”
“How can we know what they need or want?” Tim asked.
“I’ll check with Sister Altos,” Mom said. “She might be able to get sizes and ideas without letting the family know.”
Sara had been listening quietly. Now she shouted, “I hope they have a little girl! She can have some of the presents Santa was going to give me this year.”
“Does this mean that we’re giving away the presents we’d be getting?” Mike yelped.
“How about if everyone gets just one gift from Santa,” Dad said, “and the rest of Santa’s gifts go to our ‘Christmas family’?”
“That’s fair,” both boys agreed.
The following night, Mother had a list from Sister Altos of sizes and ages. There were two boys, a younger sister, and a six-month-old baby.
“Remember,” Dad said, “you can still ask for one gift from Santa. Now, let’s make a list of gifts for these children.”
“I’ll start shopping tomorrow for the things we decide on,” Mom said.
“Can I go too?” Sara pleaded. “And can I help you wrap the presents?”
“Of course.” Mom looked at Tim and Mike. “It’d be fun if you’d wrap presents too. I think you’ll find it rather exciting.”
The days rushed by as everyone bought and wrapped gifts for their Christmas family. Finally Christmas Eve arrived, snowing and cold. Sara hopped up and down with excitement. Even the boys were eager to deliver the gifts.
Father drew them all around him. “I think that this is the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” he said, his voice choking with emotion. “I’m so proud of you children for giving your presents away to someone you don’t even know.”
“I just hope Santa remembers my roller blades,” Tim joked.
Everyone laughed. Dad pulled out a red envelope. “Mom, will you write a message to our Christmas family?” he asked. “We could put some money inside to help with the medical bills—what do you think?”
“I’ve saved about six dollars,” Mike volunteered. “They can have that.”
“I have about five,” Tim chimed in. He rushed to get his savings.
Sara hurried to get her piggy bank. “I have all this money!” she squealed, opening it to let a cascade of pennies, dimes, and nickels clatter to the table. “Can we wrap it in a box for the children?”
Soon every cent of her money was in a box with “Kids’ Money” written on a tag next to the bow.
Mom disappeared for a few moments. “I’ve been saving this for new curtains, but we can wait for those.” She slipped two fifty-dollar bills into the red envelope.
Dad took out his wallet. “I stopped by the bank today, thinking that they could use this.” He put a hundred-dollar bill into the envelope.
Mother placed a card with a note inside the envelope last, then sealed it.
Sister Altos had written down the address. The car resounded with Christmas songs until the correct street sign was spotted and everyone searched for the house number of their Christmas family.
“There it is!” Tim whooped. “They’re home!”
Dad drove past the house so that their car would be out of sight. “OK,” he said, “I’ll open the trunk, and we’ll load up with gifts. Be really quiet so that they don’t hear us. When all the presents are on the porch, we’ll all get back in the car except Mike. Mike, you wait until I’ve started the engine, then ring the doorbell and run.”
No one made a sound as they piled the gifts high on the front porch. Mom held up the red envelope. “I sure hope they see this,” she whispered, tucking it into the top present.
Everyone except Mike rushed to the car, Dad started the engine, and Mike rang the doorbell and raced to the car. As he jumped inside, the front door of the house opened and a little girl shouted, “Daddy! Daddy! Santa has come!”
All the way home the family chattered excitedly about how their Christmas family must be opening their gifts and how surprised they must be.
“I just hope they see the red envelope,” Mom worried aloud again.
When the family gathered for prayers that night, it was Sara’s turn. She blessed everyone in the family and their friends, adding, “Please bless our Christmas family that they’ll like our presents for them. Bless them to have a Merry Christmas.”
Early Christmas morning, the family gathered around their tree. “I got my roller blades,” Tim shouted.
Mike held up a snowboard. “Wow! This is the greatest!”
Sara discovered a doll with a white wicker bed. “Look what Santa brought me!”
They gathered into a circle and exchanged the gifts they had for each other. Mom kept wiping her eyes. Never before had she seen her children so happy.
“I hope our Christmas family is having lots of fun,” Sara said as she tucked her doll into the white bed.
Bright and early Sunday morning, the family hurried off to church. They still radiated with the glow of Christmas.
The last speaker, an elderly gentleman from another stake, was introduced.
Tears trickled down Mom’s cheeks. Father clasped her shoulder tightly. Tim, Mike, and Sara scooted closer to them.
“I hope we can find another Christmas family next year,” Mike whispered.
Tim and Sara nodded vigorously.

“I was happy when my parents, my brother, and I were sealed in the temple,” says Juanita Leon, 12. She explains that her father used to own a restaurant and would drink a lot. “Then one day, a boy came by and talked to my father about the Church. We received all the discussions and were baptized two weeks later. A month after our baptism, my father was called as the president of the San Benito Branch. A year later, we were sealed in the temple. My father doesn’t drink anymore.”

In April of 2000, I received a phone call from Rosa Salas Gifford, whom I did not know. Her father, Bernardo Agusto Salas, had liver cancer. Her father’s great desire, she explained, was to meet me before he died.
I felt impressed that I should visit Brother Salas that very evening. I drove past the location where the road to the house should have been. I could see nothing. However, I don’t give up easily. I drove around the block and came back. Still nothing. One more time I tried and still no sign of the road. I offered a silent prayer for help. The inspiration came that I should approach the area from the opposite direction. I turned the car around so that I was now on the other side of the road. As I neared the location once again, I could see a street sign lying on its side at the edge of the road and a weed-covered track leading to a single, tiny residence. As I drove toward it, a small girl in a white dress waved to me, and I knew that I had found the family.
I was ushered into the room where Brother Salas lay. With some prompting, Brother Salas opened his eyes, and a wan smile graced his lips as I took him by the hand. I spoke the words, “I have come to meet you.” Tears welled up in his eyes and in mine.
I proceeded to provide a priesthood blessing. The words seemed to flow freely under the direction of the Spirit of the Lord. Following the blessing, I offered a few words of comfort to the grieving family members. With my limited Spanish language ability, I let them know that I loved them and that our Heavenly Father would bless them.
As I drove homeward, I reflected on the special spirit we had felt. I experienced a sense of gratitude that my Heavenly Father had answered another person’s prayer through me. May we ever be on the Lord’s errand, that we might ever be entitled to the Lord’s help.

It was almost midnight in South Africa when President Russell M. Nelson announced in the last conference session on April 4, 2021 that 20 new temples would be built.
Sister Shelly Herbert, who had been watching the session in bed whilst her husband slept, sat up a little straighter. President Henry B. Eyring’s earlier address, in which he invited the saints to ready themselves “for the increased opportunities for temple experiences that are coming for us,”1 had piqued her interest.
When the Prophet read the words ‘Cape Town, South Africa’, “the tears were just streaming down my face,” says Sister Herbert. “As I cried, I shook my husband to wake him up and said, ‘it’s happened!’”
“There were so many people who doubted that we would get a temple, but we expected it, because we believe in petitioning the Lord.”