Gospel Story Finder

I enjoyed all of the lessons during October because they reminded me that I need to become more Christlike and that I need to look to my Savior as an example. I ended up teaching one of the lessons, and as I was preparing for it, I read a talk by Elder Dallin H. Oaks of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He said, “Following Christ is not a casual or occasional practice but a continuous commitment and way of life that applies at all times and in all places” (“Followers of Christ,” Ensign, May 2013, 97). I liked this quote because it teaches us that we should follow Christ and serve always, and now I’m trying to do just that.

Bradley pedaled along the gravel bike path through the park, pumping hard and spraying gravel as he turned the corners. In a few minutes the school tardy bell would ring. He had been late twice already this month, and if he was late again, the school would call his mother. He just couldn’t let that happen.
His father had died when he was two years old, and since then he and his mother had lived alone. She worked the early shift at the hospital so that she could be home with him in the afternoons and evenings, but it meant that he had to get ready for school by himself and make his own breakfast. They had decided that an eleven-year-old could manage those things on his own. If the school called Mom at work, she’d be disappointed and worried. She might even hire Sister Williams again to help him get ready for school.
Suddenly Bradley skidded to a stop next to a black leather wallet, thick with papers and cards. It took him only a moment to scoop it up, slip it into his backpack, and be on his way.
Some early-morning jogger or someone taking a walk must have dropped the wallet, he decided. A fat wallet like this must contain lots of money. He thought about how tired his mother was after her shift at the hospital and about how little money they had after she paid the rent and bought food and clothes. They seldom had anything extra nice. Take his old bicycle, for instance. Mom had been so excited to find it at a garage sale so that he could have a motocross bike like everyone else that he could never tell her how much teasing he got because it was so battered and scratched. His mother’s birthday was just two days away, and even more than he wanted a new bicycle, he wanted to give her a really nice birthday present.
He shoved his bike into the rack in the school yard and hurried inside, dropping into his seat just as the bell rang. During recess, Bradley went into one of the cubicles in the lavatory. He dug the wallet out of his backpack and opened it. His fingers trembled as he took out the bills: twenty, forty, sixty—sixty dollars! He stuffed the money back inside and pulled out some cards, searching for a driver’s license. When he found it, the picture of a woman stared back at him. She had big brown eyes and wavy hair, her name was Maryann Foster, and she lived not very far from him. A heavy feeling started in his stomach as he wondered if Mrs. Foster had a son. He put everything back into the wallet and shoved it into his jacket pocket. Finders-keepers, he thought. But there was a tight feeling in his chest.
When Bradley got home after school, he tiptoed into the house and hurried to his room to hide the wallet. He sat down on his bed and thought about the birthday present that he could buy. For some reason, though, he didn’t feel happy.
He worked on his homework until his mother called him for supper. He kissed her and sat down at the table.
"How was school?" she asked.
"OK, I guess."
"You sound unhappy. Did something happen at school that you want to talk about?"
"No, not really," he replied. "Mom, what would you like for your birthday?"
"Oh, Bradley, I know that you don’t have much money, so I don’t want you to worry about my birthday. Just having you is like getting a present every day."
"What if I told you that someone gave me some money?" Bradley felt his face grow red. The wallet was making him lie, and suddenly he hated it.
"Did someone give you some money?" his mother asked.
When he looked at his mother’s worried face, Bradley had to tell her the truth. "No, but this morning on my way to school I found a wallet. It has sixty dollars in it. I want to buy you a present."
"Finders-keepers?" his mother asked.
"I thought that we probably need the money more than anyone else. You’ve always said that I should pray for what I need, and I’ve been praying for a long time for some way to buy you a really nice present." Tears started to run down his cheeks.
"Do you think that if you really need it, that it’s all right to keep something that isn’t yours?" Mom asked in a quiet voice.
"No. I tried to tell myself that it was finders-keepers, but I didn’t really believe it. All I wanted to do was buy you something nice."
"I know, honey," said Mom, "but there’s a better present that you can give me than one bought with money."
Bradley got up and gave her a hug, then went upstairs to get the wallet.
After supper they started walking to Mrs. Foster’s. When they found her address, Bradley opened the gate, went up the sidewalk bordered with late-summer flowers, and rang the doorbell.
The door opened, and Bradley recognized Mrs. Foster from her picture. Clinging to her legs and staring at him shyly were two small children, and she had a baby in her arms. She looked tired, and there were worry lines creasing her forehead.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Uh … my name’s Bradley. This morning on my way to school, I found this, so I’m returning it to you." He held out the wallet.
The woman stared at him a moment, speechless. Then her face crumpled, and she started to cry. "I’m sorry," she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron. "Won’t you please come in?"
When they were sitting inside, Bradley noticed that the furniture was old and that all the toys on the floor were in bad shape.
"Oh, Bradley," said Mrs. Foster, "I’m grateful that you are honest. When I couldn’t find the wallet, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been praying all day that whoever found my wallet would return it to me. Thank you for answering my prayer."
Later, as they were walking home, Mom asked, "When Mrs. Foster tried to give you some money for a reward, why didn’t you take it?"
"Well, I decided that I didn’t really need the money so much. When I first found the wallet, I thought that it was the answer to my prayer. But I’m happier now to have been the answer to Mrs. Foster’s prayer. I think that she needs the money more than we do."
"Oh, Bradley," said Mom, hugging him. "I’m proud of you! You really are the best birthday present that any mother could have!"

If you have yet to receive a recommend or if your recommend has lapsed, line up at the door of the bishop just as the early Saints lined up at the door of the Nauvoo Temple in 1846. My ancestors were among those faithful. They were abandoning their beautiful city and going west, but they knew that there were sacred experiences awaiting them in the temple. Wrote Sarah Rich from the rugged trail in Iowa, “If it had not been for the faith and knowledge that was bestowed upon us in that temple … , our journey would have been like … taking a leap in the dark.” That is what we are missing if we are going through this life alone without the inspiration and peace promised in the temple.

Peter Leonard Joyce expressed his feelings over different challenges as he presides over the Utah Ogden Mission: “I don’t know of many areas in the Church with 144 stakes and about 1,500 wards and branches,” he said. Yet adapting to this mission environment is a challenge he looks forward to. The location is special to his wife, Sheena, as the missionary who taught her the gospel 42 years ago resides within the mission. “It’s not a small world,” she said. “It’s a big Church.”

Sister Sheldon is the greatest Primary president ever! She is energetic and funny. When she stands up to do sharing time, we all chant, “It’s Sheldon sharing time” with jazz hands and smiles. She loves it!
Early in 2015 Sister Sheldon discovered that she had cancer again, for the fifth time! She explained to all of us what cancer is and what it does. She told us that she might miss church sometimes and she would probably lose her hair. She asked us to fast and pray to help make the cancer go away.
During this time, our Primary did the helping hands challenge, where we cut out paper hands and wrote on them an act of service we did. Sister Ashby, in the Primary presidency, had the idea to make a helping hands quilt for Sister Sheldon. We all wanted her to know that we love her, so the whole Primary traced hands and hearts, and the activity day girls used them to make a quilt. We sewed, ironed, and poured all of our love into it. Some of us even tied strings on our fingers to remember Sister Sheldon.
We gave the quilt to Sister Sheldon. She took it to her chemotherapy sessions and felt our love.
The best part was when Sister Sheldon bore her testimony to the entire Primary. She told us how special we were to her and that she loved us. She knew we were a big part of why she made it through chemo again. Even though I was scared that she might not make it, I just knew she would. Today Sister Sheldon is cancer free!

S stands for Service in Arizona. All over the state, LDSSA council members are boosting the idea that involvement is joy.
In the Phoenix region, the Latter-day Saint students are concentrating on the underprivileged areas. The main focus of their work has been on community school activities. They started from scratch and have developed a five-day-a-week program for all interested adult members in the surrounding community.
“We beamed with pride when Mr. Fuller, director of the community school, spoke at the institute and praised our efforts,” commented Gordon Paul Sorenson.
Brian Hendrickson, third-year law student, is community project chairman; and, according to Tempe institute director Sherman Beck, Brian stirred up a wonderful storm when he got the community project going. “Working with underprivileged children to lift them to greater heights of accomplishment and to give meaning to their lives is most rewarding,” Brian says.

Back in the year 1961, a worldwide conference was held for mission presidents, and every mission president in the Church was brought to Salt Lake City for those meetings. I came to Salt Lake City from my mission in Toronto, Canada.

In one particular meeting, N. Eldon Tanner, who was then an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve, had just returned from his initial experience of presiding over the missions in Great Britain and western Europe. He told of a missionary who had been the most successful missionary whom he had met in all of the interviews he had conducted. He said that as he interviewed that missionary, he said to him, “I suppose that all of the people whom you baptized came into the Church by way of referrals.”

The young man answered, “No, we found them all by tracting.”

Brother Tanner asked him what was different about his approach—why he had such phenomenal success when others didn’t. The young man said that he attempted to baptize every person whom he met. He said that if he knocked on the door and saw a man smoking a cigar and dressed in old clothes and seemingly uninterested in anything—particularly religion—the missionary would picture in his own mind what that man would look like under a different set of circumstances. In his mind he would look at him as clean-shaven and wearing a white shirt and white trousers. And the missionary could see himself leading that man into the waters of baptism. He said, “When I look at someone that way, I have the capacity to bear my testimony to him in a way that can touch his heart.”

President Harold B. Lee had a marked influence on Sister Monson and me and our three children. On rather brief occasions he commented to each of our children in a tone which reflected deep spirituality, genuine interest, and inspired counsel.
Our youngest son, Clark, was about to turn twelve when we chanced to meet Brother Lee in the parking lot of the Church Office Building. He asked Clark how old he was. Clark answered, “Soon to be twelve.”
Came the question: “What happens to you when you turn twelve?”
The response: “I’ll receive the Aaronic Priesthood and be ordained a deacon.”
With a warm smile and the clasp of his hand, Brother Lee said, “Bless you, my boy.”
Our daughter, Ann, as a young teenager was with her mother and me when we encountered Brother Lee, and proper introductions were made. Brother Lee took our daughter’s hand in his and, with a lovely smile, said to her, “You, my dear one, are beautiful inside as well as outside. What a choice young lady you are.”
In a more solemn setting, Brother Lee met me one evening on the steps of the LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City. By appointment we were to give a blessing to my eldest son, Tom, who was then in his later teens. Surgery awaited which could be of a most serious nature. Brother Lee took my hand before we ascended the stairs and, looking me straight in the eye, said, “Tom, there is no place I would rather be at this moment than by your side to participate with you in providing a sacred priesthood blessing to your son.”
We then went to the room, where he said to Tom, “We are about to give you a blessing, even to provide a priesthood ordinance. We approach this privilege in humility, for we remember the counsel of the Prophet Joseph Smith, who said that when those who hold the priesthood place their hands on the head of a person in this sacred ordinance, it is as though the hands of the Lord are placed thereon.” The blessing was given; the surgery turned out to be minor. But lessons were learned, spirituality of a great leader was observed, and a model to follow was provided.

One sister, while babysitting my children, took them to the store to choose birthday presents to give to me. Another sister did the same with my children at Christmastime.

One hot summer day, Reesey and Cheyenne invited Zara over to play. Mum made a snack. The girls sat at the table to eat.
Mum sliced mangoes from their mango tree. She put apple slices and grapes on a plate. Reesey looked at the delicious food. She remembered to say a prayer before eating her snack. She asked Zara, “Do you pray at your house?”
“What’s that?” Zara asked.
“Like this,” said Cheyenne. She folded her arms and bowed her head. She asked a blessing on the food. When she was done, she said, “See? Like that. Easy!”
“We don’t do that at our house. We just eat,” said Zara.
Reesey had never thought about not praying. “Mum,” she said, “do we have to say prayers?”
Mum smiled as she carried cups of ice water to the table. “We like thanking Heavenly Father for what He has given us. We’re going to keep saying prayers. But it’s OK if other people don’t.”
Reesey knew Mum was right. She was happy when her family prayed. Maybe praying would make Zara happy too. “You could try it,” she said to Zara.
Zara smiled. “Maybe I will,” she said and ate a slice of mango.
“I like it when we pray,” said Cheyenne.“It makes me feel happy inside.”
Reesey and Cheyenne were happy they could tell their friend about praying. They all finished their snacks and ran back outside to play.

The plan began to take shape in an unexpected way when I received a phone call from the local police station. Alex had been arrested. My new husband and I put on our coats and in the middle of the night picked Alex up from the police station. We didn’t make a scene; actually Alex’s stepfather and I said very little.

When we got home, Alex told us what had happened when he and his friend had stolen a scooter. He was so sorry for what he had done. I saw for the first time a broken young man.

The arrest was a turning point for Alex as he began to realize the consequences of his actions and where he was headed. From that day on, so many blessings started to come our way.

The next day Alex told us that he had asked the officer to call us because he knew that we loved him. He also realized how much he had hurt us, and he appreciated that we had stayed calm.

Later this month we shall dedicate a beautiful new building on the Brigham Young University campus to the memory of a woman, Caroline Hemenway Harman. You probably have never heard of her. I would like to tell you briefly her story.
At the age of twenty-two Caroline married George Harman. They had seven children, one of whom died in infancy. Then, at the age of thirty-nine, her husband passed away and she was left a widow.
Her sister, Grace, had married her husband’s brother, David. In 1919, during the terrible influenza epidemic, David was seriously stricken, and then his wife, Grace, became ill. Caroline cared for them and their children as well as her own. In the midst of these afflictions, Grace gave birth to a son, and then she died within a few hours. Caroline took the tiny infant to her own home and there nurtured it and saved the child’s life. Three weeks later her own daughter, Annie, passed away.
By now Caroline had lost two of her own children, her husband, and her sister. The strain was too much. She collapsed. She came out of that collapse with a serious case of diabetes. But she did not slow down. She continued to care for her sister’s baby; and her brother-in-law, the child’s father, came each day to see the little boy. David Harman and Caroline were later married, and there were now thirteen children in their home.
Then five years later David suffered a catastrophe that tried to the very depths those who agonized with him. On one occasion he used a strong disinfectant in preparing seed for planting. This got on his body, and the effects were disastrous. The skin and flesh sloughed off his bones. His tongue and teeth dropped out. The caustic solution literally ate him alive.
Caroline nursed him in this terrible illness, and when he died she was left with five of her own and eight of her sister’s children, and a farm of 280 acres where she and the children plowed, sowed, irrigated, and harvested to bring in enough to provide for their needs. At this time she also was Relief Society president, a position she held for eighteen years.
While caring for her large family and in extending the hand of charity to others, she would bake eight loaves of bread a day and wash forty loads of clothes a week. She canned fruits and vegetables by the ton, and cared for a thousand laying hens to provide a little cash. Self-reliance was her standard. Idleness she regarded as sin. She cared for her own and reached out to others in a spirit of kindness that would permit no one of whom she was aware to go hungry, unclothed, or cold.
She later married Eugene Robison, who, not long afterward, suffered a stroke. For five years until his death she nursed him and cared for him in all his needs.
Finally, exhausted, her body racked by the effects of diabetes, she passed away at the age of sixty-seven. The habits of industry and hard work which she instilled in her children rewarded their efforts through the years. Her sister’s tiny baby, whom she nurtured from the hour of his birth, together with his brothers and sisters, all acting out of a sense of love and gratitude, have given to the university a substantial bequest to make possible the beautiful building which will carry her name.

The day dawned bright, hot, breathless. Perfect weather for planting, John thought as he jumped out of bed and dressed in his work clothes. It was the time of year he loved most. Days were getting longer, full of sunshine, and new things were beginning to grow.
John struggled to fasten the clumsy metal buttons on his overalls. “I have to hurry—I hear Grandpa outside,” he said to himself. His sleepy fingers finally managed to nudge the last stubborn button through the buttonhole. John was Grandpa’s helper now that his big brother, Mark, was serving a mission.
Today he and Grandpa were going to get the small south field ready to plant in wheat. After that, there would be weeks of work ahead for them—wonderful weeks of fertilizing, weeding, waiting. Then would come the biggest event of all, the harvest.
After a quick breakfast, a whoop of sheer joy, and a kiss on Mom’s cheek, seven-year-old John grabbed the knapsack his mother had prepared and bounded out the back door and across the yard. He scrambled excitedly up onto the well-worn metal tractor seat and settled down next to Grandpa. He surveyed the waiting field, then grinned his mile-wide, I’m-ready-to-get-down-to-work grin.
Today was a big day for John. Grandpa was going to let him steer the tractor all by himself for the first time. Grandpa trusted him to help with even the toughest jobs around the farm, and that made him feel grown-up.
John anxiously double-checked his gear. Yep, everything was there. Mom had sent along one man-sized lunch, a thermos of ice water, a hat to help keep the sun away, and. … Thrusting his hand deep down into his pocket, John fingered the coins he had brought along so that he could surprise Grandpa by taking him to town for an ice-cream cone after their work was done.
“Why, John!” Grandpa exclaimed over the noisy tractor engine, “I do believe you’ve forgotten something.”
“What, Grandpa?”
“You’ve forgotten your two front teeth,” Grandpa chuckled, tousling John’s hair and smiling into his freckle-splashed face.
Now both of them were laughing, and John, reaching up, gave Grandpa a mighty hug.
“You’ll be glad I lost those teeth, Grandpa, because the tooth fairy left me just enough money for …”
“Enough money for what?” Grandpa’s voice boomed over the rattle and roar of the tractor.
“You’ll see when we’re finished here, Grandpa,” John teased as they headed the tractor down to the field.
After forty years of farming, Grandpa had retired and John’s dad had taken over the farm. All of it, that is, except this one small parcel of land. “I won’t ever quit working this field,” Grandpa told John as they chugged along on the trusty old tractor. “This is our mission field.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” John giggled. “When Mark writes letters to me about being in the mission field, he isn’t talking about being out in a field of wheat.”
“John, I can see it’s time I tell you the story.” Grandpa reached over to shut the engine off. “When your dad was ready to go on a mission, almost twenty-five years ago now, your grandmother and I couldn’t afford to send him. We’d always tried our best to live the gospel, and we knew we could depend on the Lord, so we prayed that He would help us make enough money to send our boy on a mission.”
“Were your prayers answered, Grandpa?”
“Yes, John. Heavenly Father answered them in a surprising way. This little piece of land came up for sale, and your grandma and I felt inspired to buy it. It was a small field, nothing to rave about. But we had read in the scriptures that from small things great blessings come. So Grandma and I hoped that if we remained faithful and hard-working, the Lord might see fit to turn this small field into a great blessing.”
“Did you get your blessing, Grandpa?” John asked.
“Did we ever!” Grandpa answered, beaming. “We received enough money from our first crop to send your dad on his mission, and for as long as he was serving in England, we had a bumper crop. When he came home from England, the field’s production returned to normal, but as each of our three sons served missions, it thrived again. To this day, Grandma and I call it our mission field. Why, this very field is helping support Mark on his mission right now.” Grandpa smiled, giving John’s shoulder a healthy squeeze.
“And someday,” John whispered, “do you think that someday, Grandpa … ?”
“Yes, John, someday you’ll reap the rewards of our mission field too.”
It was time to work now. John and Grandpa dug right in, grateful for the fertile soil beneath them.
Under Grandpa’s watchful eye, John steered the tractor around the field, carefully overturning the hard soil. He tried hard to set his sights so that the rows would be straight and to concentrate on Grandpa’s instructions. He wanted to do his best, now more than ever before.
Dust swirled behind the tractor as John steered it, row by row, up and down the field. After the field had been plowed, they put the disk harrow onto the tractor and went over the field again to break up any large clumps of earth. Gophers, rabbits, and grasshoppers scurried ahead to avoid the harrow’s sharp disks. Seagulls swooped down from above in hopes of nabbing a succulent cricket or grasshopper as John and Grandpa made their rounds. Beneath him, John felt the soil break up, ready for them to plant the next day.
John imagined how it would be in early autumn, when the field would be beautiful with tall, golden wheat, ripe for harvest. Grandpa would pull a handful of wheat from the stalk, as he always did, and rub it hard between his strong, rough hands to separate the kernels from the chaff. Then he and John would stand together in the field, the breeze blowing waves of grain around them, while they tasted the wheat. Grandpa would chew slowly, deliberately, checking for texture and flavor. John would chew his handful of wheat until it turned to gum in his mouth. At last Grandpa would nod with satisfaction and say, “It’s ready, John,” and together they would harvest the crop.
John sighed contentedly as he and Grandpa climbed down off the tractor that day. This was going to be a most wonderful summer. John just knew it. There would be ice-cream cones to eat, laughter to share, and stories to tell. Best of all, he thought as he gazed out over the newly plowed mission field, this summer there will be a bumper crop!

One day at recess, my best friend, Julie,* told me that she no longer wanted to be my friend. I was very sad and asked her why. She said that she didn’t know why, just that she no longer wanted to be my friend. I felt very bad and walked away crying.
When I got home from school, I told my mom what had happened. She listened to me and hugged me. She reminded me that I had other friends to play with. When my dad came home, I asked him what to do. He told me that when I see her to just think about what Jesus would do.
The next day at school, we ignored each other at first. Later, at recess, she apologized and asked to be my friend again. I remembered how bad I’d felt and didn’t want her to hurt my feelings again. So I told her that I would think about it.
The rest of recess, I thought about what my parents had told me. I decided that Jesus would give her a second chance and so should I. I forgave her and told her that I still wanted to be her friend. I learned that even though it is hard to forgive people sometimes, if you forgive, you are happier and feel closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.

Having been quite well-acquainted with Heber Valley and the surrounding mountains, I was interested in “His Father’s Sheep” in the May New Era. I was very disappointed, however, when I saw a photo of Doug Clyde carving some graffiti into the trunk of a beautiful white aspen tree. I was even more dismayed to read a caption that seemed to justify the act. Carving on trees is not only illegal on government land but is also condemned by the U.S. Forest Service and all conservation organizations for obvious reasons. That a Church magazine noted for its beautiful nature photography should encourage such behavior is outrageous! I would like to see a printed apology.
Neil F. AndersenCambelltown, New South Wales, Australia
We gladly apologize if we have seemed to encourage the defacement of trees. Editor

When traveling to the stakes of Zion for the purpose of reorganizing a stake presidency, I have sometimes been surprised when, during an interview, a brother would tell me that he had received an impression that he would be in the next presidency.
When I first heard this, I wasn’t sure how to react.
It took some time before the Holy Spirit gave me understanding. I believe that the Lord has a certain calling for every man. Sometimes He grants spiritual promptings telling us that we are worthy to receive certain callings. This is a spiritual blessing, a tender mercy from God.
But sometimes we do not hear the rest of what the Lord is telling us. “Although you are worthy to serve in this position,” He may say, “this is not my calling for you. It is my desire instead that you lift where you stand.” God knows what is best for us.

When you think of Christmas, snow-capped mountains and the chill of early winter may come to mind. But for Elizabeth Turner, an 18-year-old girl who lives in Burpengary, Australia, Christmas is a summertime celebration—complete with stifling temperatures. She describes her family’s celebration of Christmas as a day that resembles the Fourth of July in America.
First, she and her sisters wake up very early (about 5:00 A.M.) and go downstairs to get breakfast started. “Already it’s too hot to sleep with my sheets on,” says Elizabeth. The family opens presents, eats, and prepares to go to the beach.
At the beach, the family swims and plays on the sandy shore. For dinner, the Turners have a beach barbecue followed by several different types of summer fruit—melon, pineapple, passion fruit, and mangos—all family favorites.
At the day’s end, the family talks over the day’s events and eats ice cream. Christmas is over for another year as Elizabeth and her family fall asleep under a sky full of glittering stars, stars in the Australian night sky that shine very much like the star that shone over Bethlehem hundreds of years ago.

At first Taigan felt shy and wasn’t sure she’d like it. But she didn’t want to be left out. She takes piano and flute lessons. “Singing with the choir made me realize how much I love music and that I like singing.”

Expectant silence fills the living room where 80-year-old Ronald Bowles sits surrounded by teenagers.
“I’ll never forget my first trip as an officer in the South Pacific,” Brother Bowles begins, recounting an experience he had on a ship as a U.S. Marine during World War II. “It was a moonlit night, and I was on watch. Off the bow, on the starboard side, three torpedoes were coming straight for us.”
Now at full attention, the young men and women of the Tempe Arizona Stake listen anxiously as Brother Bowles continues: “I was just about to reach for the general alarm bell … when two or three porpoises swerved right by the bow and took off.”
The teens laugh with relief that the threatening torpedoes turned out to be nothing more than porpoises.

A year and 10 months after my baptism, I received my first subscription to the Liahona (English). I read almost all its contents and realized the joy it brings. The magazine lifts me and gives me encouragement and ideas about how to deal with my problems. It increases my testimony of the truthfulness of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And it draws me near to Heavenly Father and His Son.
I am the only member of the Church in my family. Now I’m sharing the Liahona with my relatives and with Church members who don’t yet have a subscription. I just can’t keep the truthfulness and joy of the gospel inside.
Filipina Munsayal, Baguio Pacdal Ward, Baguio Philippines Stake