Gospel Story Finder

At least I thought I would have peace. Instead, I faced insults and rejection. Slanderous speculations circulated about my reasons for leaving the convent. Frustrated and filled with feelings of worthlessness, I became confused and decided on the most deplorable course of action—taking my own life.
On 21 November 1995 I wandered down a street, with thoughts of suicide filling my mind and tears running down my cheeks, when I happened upon a church building. Trying to keep my tears private and find some relief from my pain, I entered the building. Inside, I came upon a bulletin board. I was surprised to see a friendly and warm illustration of the Savior, accompanied by words so simple and understandable that I was instantly captivated. It was the Christ I had been searching for. Without realizing it, I had stopped weeping.
A few minutes later a kind woman asked if she could help. Not knowing what to say, I blurted out, “What is this church about?” She started to explain, and suddenly tears came to my eyes again. I told her, embarrassed, that I needed a friend. At that moment her husband joined us, and I told them of my sorrow. They said they knew a Friend who had all the answers—Jesus Christ—and they invited me to learn more about Him and our Heavenly Father’s plan. Without hesitation, I agreed.
For 10 days I met with this loving and kind missionary couple. They never pressured me, just shared their testimonies and taught me. They also shared one of the greatest gifts we can receive—the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. I read it, studied it, and put Moroni’s promise to the test (see Moro. 10:3–5). The Holy Ghost witnessed to me that the Book of Mormon is the word of God. What had been mysteries to me became clear. I knew who the Lord was and how to serve Him. Two sister missionaries taught me the missionary discussions, and I was baptized on 3 December 1995.

Yet another father taught a son a never-to-be-forgotten lesson in obedience and, by example, to honor the Sabbath day. I learned of this at the funeral service of a noble General Authority, H. Verlan Andersen. A tribute was paid to him by one of his sons. It has application wherever we are and whatever we are doing. It is the example of personal experience.
The son of Elder Andersen related that years earlier he had a special school date on a Saturday night. He borrowed from his father the family car. As he obtained the car keys and was heading for the door, his father said: “The car will need more gasoline before tomorrow. Be sure to fill the tank before coming home.”
Elder Andersen’s son related that the evening activity was wonderful. Friends met, refreshments were served, and all had a good time. In his exuberance, however, he failed to follow his father’s instruction to add fuel to the car’s tank before returning home.
Sunday morning dawned. Elder Andersen discovered the gas gauge showed empty. The son saw his father walk back into the house and put the car keys on the table. In the Andersen home, the Sabbath day was a day for worship and thanksgiving, and not for purchases.
As the funeral message continued, Elder Andersen’s son declared, “I saw my father put on his coat, bid us good-bye, and then walk the long distance to the chapel, that he might attend an early meeting.” Duty called. Truth was not held slave to expedience.
In concluding his funeral message, he said: “No son was ever taught more effectively by his father than I was on that occasion. My father not only knew the truth—he lived it.”

Jean-Olivier Smatti, a youth leader in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, said: “This week was a miracle. We had 86 young men and women including 15 who are investigating our Church. We had passport problems and even a tornado, but we know that our stay on Lifou was an incredible tool for missionary work. The locals were impressed by our youth, and they were so pleased to meet them.”

Kenny leaned against Sly’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of the animal in the cold winter air. “You’re a regular stove, Sly,” he said. The black horse flicked his ears and kept eating. Kenny threaded his fingers through the horse’s silky black mane and looked across the corral at the huge mounds of snow heaped along the fences. His father said it was the most snow they’d had in 14 years.
Picking up the pitchfork, Kenny went to feed the rest of the animals. For the past three days, he’d had to do all the chores by himself. His dad was sick with a high fever, and it was hard for him to breathe.
“Hey, Kenny.”
He looked up to see his neighbor standing at the gate, bundled up so just his eyes showed. He’d been sick too.
“When’s your father going into Ely next? My wife is real sick and we could use some medicine.”
Kenny’s father was a teamster as well as a farmer. Every few days he drove his wagon and team of horses from Lund, Nevada, to Ely, taking milk, grain, and other produce raised by the farmers in Lund. He brought back the mail, medicine, and other needed items.
“I’ll tell him you were asking,” Kenny said. Then he trudged back to the house through the snow.
His mother stood at the stove, fixing breakfast. “Your father wants to talk to you,” she said.
Kenny took off his hat and gloves and walked into the other room. In the dim light he could see his father’s face against the pillow.
“Did it snow again last night?” Father asked.
“Some. But the sky’s clear this morning.” Kenny hesitated, not wanting to tell him that the neighbor was asking about medicine from Ely. Father was too sick to go anywhere, and it would just worry him.
But he seemed to already know. He pushed himself up on one elbow and looked at Kenny. “What do you think about riding Sly into Ely? People need medicine, and the mail needs to go through.”
Excitement stirred in Kenny’s stomach. Ride to Ely? By himself?
“Sly is our best horse,” Father said. “He hasn’t been to Ely much, but you know the way.”
Kenny nodded. He had ridden to Ely in the wagon with his father lots of times. “I’ll do it,” he said. Fear was only a tiny fist curled deep in his heart. He hardly paid attention to it.
When Kenny awoke the next morning, it was still dark outside. His mother had hot mush, eggs, venison, and thick slices of buttered bread ready for him. In a cloth bag was more food for him to eat on the way.
“You spend the night in Ely with Aunt Sarah and Uncle Rod.” She laid a small stack of papers tied with string on the table. “Here are the names of medicines that you will need to pick up.”
Kenny tucked the papers in the saddlebag along with the mail. His little sisters watched with solemn eyes.
“When will you be back?” Thelma asked.
“Tomorrow night,” Kenny replied.
“Stay on the road,” his father warned. “Don’t take any shortcuts. The snow will be drifted bad in places.” Then his family knelt for morning prayer, and his father asked for a special blessing on Kenny and Sly.
The air was icy when they set out. It was still dark, but a rim of light showed along the eastern horizon.
Someone had already broken a trail through the flats, so the first part went smoothly. But when they reached the hills, the trail ended. Kenny looked at the untracked snow that lay glittering before them. If he squinted, he could see a slight indention where the road wound through the hills.
“Here we go,” Kenny said and nudged Sly in the ribs. The horse stepped forward, the soft snow giving way under his hooves. In some places, it was so deep it came up to the horse’s belly. Sly would paw at it, breaking a trail and moving forward.
When the sun was somewhere near the top of the sky, Kenny pulled Sly to a stop to eat lunch. His mother had packed sandwiches and apples. Kenny gave the apples to Sly, who munched them happily, the juice dribbling off his floppy lips. Then they set out again.
As they climbed higher in the hills, the indention in the snow that showed the road grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared. Snow was drifted in huge mounds, creating hills where there had been no hills and smooth places where there had been ravines. Kenny reined Sly to a halt and looked around. It was as if he had turned a corner and found himself lost in a completely foreign world. The tiny fist of fear in his heart suddenly grew large.
“Heavenly Father,” he whispered, “I don’t know which way to go. Please help me.” He took a deep breath and urged the horse on.
Suddenly Sly sank up to his neck in snow. Kenny panicked, his head pounding. “Please, Heavenly Father, please help us.” Desperate, he looked around at the flat whiteness imprisoning them. He gripped the reins, fighting an impulse to jump off the horse and run. Common sense told him he wouldn’t be able to run. He’d be completely buried.
Then suddenly he could feel Sly’s muscles moving underneath him. Sly was slowly, patiently pawing at the snow, digging his way out. Kenny reached down and began moving the snow burying his own legs.
It seemed like hours before he and his horse had cleared a space around them. Sly stood for a moment, panting, then lunged heavily to the right, stumbled, and caught himself. Finally they were standing on the road.
Kenny looked around him. They could turn around and go back home. He could tell his father he couldn’t go any farther. He’d understand. But Sly started walking again, carefully placing each hoof. Again Kenny prayed. “What shall I do? Shall I keep going or turn around? I think I’m lost.”
A quiet voice said, “Look up at the mountains.”
Kenny looked up past the hills to the mountains that surrounded their valley. The mountains hadn’t changed. They were right where they’d always been—familiar, sturdy. Suddenly Kenny knew where he was. It was as if he could see the road the way it looked in summer. There were the mountains, there were the hills, and there was the road. He could imagine how it wound up the hill.
“I think we’re supposed to keep going,” he said to his horse, but Sly was already going.
The sun was beginning to set when, at last, Kenny saw what he’d been looking for—a clear indention in the snow that was the road. And farther on, he saw something even better. Someone with a sled had driven down the road, packing the snow and making a clear trail all the way to Ely.
It was well past dark when Kenny knocked on Aunt Sarah’s door.
“Kenny! What are you doing here? You look frozen solid.”
“I’m OK,” Kenny said, his knees trembling. “But I need to take care of my horse.”
Later, over a bowl of warm stew, he told his aunt and uncle about his ride to Ely, and how his father and others were sick and needed medicine.
“You get some rest tonight,” his uncle said. “We’ll get the medicine first thing in the morning. Going back will be easier because you’ve already broken a trail.” He looked at Kenny hard. “Grown men have gotten lost or stranded in that deep snow.”
Kenny laid his spoon beside his bowl and looked at his uncle. “I had help,” he said. He thought about the quiet voice and the mountains and how Sly seemed to know just what to do. Heavenly Father was watching out for them.

Photograph courtesy of Ariana O.
Ariana O. of Queensland, Australia, along with several other students in her music class at school, was given an assignment to compose a song about something uniquely American. “I had a few things going around in my head,” says Ariana, “but the Restoration stood out to me the most. It was something I was passionate about and something I am very proud to be a part of.”
On the Friday after she finished writing the song, the teacher told the students that they would perform their songs the following Monday. “When I went home that evening, I practiced whenever I could so that I could surprise Mum and Dad with what I wrote the song about,” says Ariana. “I had to wait the whole weekend, and I was a little bit scared as well. I didn’t know how my classmates would react, and I didn’t want them to think I was weird.”
On Monday, the teacher announced the performances. As it turned out, only Ariana and one other group had actually written a song.
“I was nervous,” she says. “One group wrote a song about cowboys and Indians, and I wrote a song about Joseph Smith. The group who wrote their song about cowboys went first, and they were just as nervous as I was, but there were two of them performing. When it was my turn, I said a little prayer and went to the piano. I started playing, and it was like it was just me and the piano. Once I finished, I explained what the song was about, and then I sat back down.”
Though Ariana wasn’t sure how the others felt, she was glad to have shared her testimony in that way. And, she says, “I knew that I had grown spiritually.”

Valentine’s Day was always a wonderful time for me. Back in the early 1920s when I was a child, we delivered valentines by sneaking up to a person’s house, placing the valentine in front of the door, and then kicking the door hard and running away. The person in the house would then run out and try to catch the messenger. Even though we were supposed to escape, we liked getting caught because the recipient of the valentine would always invite us back to the house for refreshments.
I was getting ready to deliver my valentines one year when Mother suggested, “Roy, don’t you think it would be nice to leave one for George?”
“But, Mother …” I protested, my voice trailing off. I didn’t want to tell her the truth—that I was afraid of George. He was a boy who appeared to be about my age. He did not attend school with us because he was mentally disabled. No one ever talked to or played with him because he seemed strange. He looked unusual—his face appeared to be flat, and he had a hard time walking. He acted differently, too. As my two brothers and I passed his house on our way to school, he would come out and try to communicate with us in grunts. Frightened, we would avoid him by hurriedly crossing the street to stay as far away as we could. As we passed by, we often noticed his mother taking him back into the house. He seemed sad whenever this happened.
Mother seemed to read my mind. “Son, I know you’re afraid, but that boy needs a friend. Will you do it?”
I reluctantly agreed. As my brothers and I walked down the street to George’s house, we decided that I would be the one to deliver the valentine. Nervously I lifted the latch on George’s front gate and approached the house, not knowing what to expect. Gathering all my courage, I stepped onto the porch, laid the valentine down, banged my foot against the front door, and then fled with all the speed I could muster.
As I ran through the gate and up the road, I glanced back and saw George’s mother opening the door. She looked down to see the valentine on the porch.
“Please, come back!” she called.
My brothers, who were waiting on the sidewalk, returned with me to the house. We entered the front room to find George dancing around clutching the valentine to his heart, tears streaming down his happy face. George’s mother grabbed all three of us, hugged and kissed us, and invited us into the cellar to pick out the biggest red apples we had ever seen.
From that time on, my brothers and I found it easy to be a friend to George. My mother had taken advantage of a great opportunity to teach us how to love our neighbor.

Sister Mireille Van Tonder of Bordeaux, France, also speaks five languages—Afrikaans, French, Dutch, English, and German. She recently spoke with a young woman visiting from South Africa. Sister Van Tonder, who was born in South Africa, was able to tell the visitor about the Church in her native language. The young woman was surprised and excited to learn that the Church was in her own country and that she could be taught by missionaries when she returned home.

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.

After completing a full-time mission in the Brazil São Paulo North Mission, Elder Koch studied statistics at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, USA. “On a trip back to Brazil, I visited the ward of a friend, where I met my future wife,” said Elder Koch. “She walked up to me and asked me if I was married.” After an eight-month, long-distance courtship—and only 15 actual days together—he married Liliane Michele Ludwig on April 26, 1988, in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. They have two children.

There’s something different about Chris and Jason Trevino of Huntsville, Alabama. Something different in a positive way, a way that makes you want to understand why they’re so upbeat all the time and why they seem to have life all figured out.
This is made all the more intriguing by the fact that the two 19-year-old brothers are identical twins—twins so much alike that people get confused, yet with something so different about them they stand out among their peers. For example:
—They spend a lot of time helping their neighbors, the Wellmans, take care of their three youngest children, Michael, Jennifer, and Nathan. They play and laugh with and tease them in a good-natured way. They organize parties for them and take them fishing or boating. Sometimes they all camp out as a group in the Wellmans’ backyard. Chris and Jason are more like older brothers than neighbors to them. And what do the twins get in return for their kindness? A squeeze play. The kids smother them with hugs.
—They take care of three horses at a nearby riding club, mostly in return for the privilege of being allowed to exercise them now and then. They do the dirty work without complaining. They show up when they say they will and do all that they’re asked. They help with expenses. They’re totally dependable.
—They love their family. Put Jim and Barbara Trevino and their twin boys together and it’s like you’re with a group of best buddies, friends who treat each other with ultimate respect. Add 15-year-old sister Allison to the mix, and it only gets better.
Bad mood? The twins make it disappear.
Help with homework? No problem.
Want to tag along while we go somewhere? Great. Hop in.
Yes, the twins treat everyone well, most of all mom and dad and sister. But there’s something else—fondness may be the closest description. This family really enjoys being together, in a way that lets you know they’ll always be close.
—Most of all, at a time in life when many young men of their age and athletic ability concentrate on which college they’ll attend, what teams they’ll be on, and what young women they’re dating, the twins are leaving all that behind.
Argentina. That’s what they want to talk about right now, because soon that’s where they’ll be. They’ve both been called to serve as full-time missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Chris in Bahia Blanca. Jason in Resistencia. Two years at their own expense. Two years bearing testimony of the Lord Jesus Christ. Two years focused entirely on the needs of other people.
And maybe that’s the clue to figuring out the Trevino twins. The difference that makes them both the same is their love for other people. It’s a love that comes from following the Savior and living his teachings, from concentrating on what really counts instead of wasting worry on worldly things. It’s a dedication that brings happiness so filling it spills out into everything they do and everyone they meet. Add that to personalities that have always been spontaneous, and you’ll find Chris and Jason telling everyone what they’re up to:
—Getting passport pictures taken, they keep telling the photographer about how they’ll be representing the Church. “That’s why we brought our suits for the pictures,” Chris explains.
—Meeting with the county sheriff, who has to sign letters for their visas, they can’t help explaining how excited they are about spreading the gospel. “I can tell,” chuckles the sheriff, who already knows their father.
—At the county government building, they tell the clerks about going to Argentina to preach the gospel. “Isn’t that great?” Jason beams.
—Their mother’s boss, Victor Howard, is a Church member who works across the street. Dropping in to visit, they soon have him joking along with them. But after a few minutes, they talk seriously about the mission he served and how much he loves the Lord, the gospel, and the Church.
You have to understand. Chris and Jason are the kind of guys who, if you ask about diving and you’re close to the community pool, will show you the dives they do. Never mind that they didn’t bring their suits. They’ve been lifeguards here, and the caretaker, who knows them well, gives permission. They look at each other, accept the challenge, and even though they’re in jeans, jump on the board and plunge in the pool. You get the feeling that’s the same way they’ll plunge into missionary work—follow the rules, be dependable, work hard. But get with it—no wimpy excuses.
It’s sort of like a lesson Chris says he learned at the stables.
“Horses are good,” he explains. “If you work with them you learn to love them. But there’s one named Alvin. I don’t like to ride him a whole bunch because of his attitude. He fights me and tries to get the reins from my hands. He thinks he should do what he wants when he wants. There are a few missionaries who are like that. If their mind’s stuck on somebody back home, or if they go out just because everybody else thinks they should be there, they’ve got to change their attitude. You can’t complain about the reins; you’ve got to concentrate on where you’re going.”
And that’s what Chris and Jason are doing—concentrating on where they’re going. Not just on their missions but in their lives.
Sure there are some things that will be tough to leave behind. Family first of all. Friends a close second. Even the horses they’ve taken care of. And school, and work, and just having a blast. But nothing stands in the way once you gain the perspective of eternity. Even having to work in separate missions.
“Chris opened his call letter first, and I saw Argentina,” Jason says. “Then I opened mine, and for a split second it was like, ‘We’ll be in the same mission!’ Then we read more and found out we’d be in different parts of the country. We’ve been together for 19 years, and now we’ll be apart. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is what we’ll be doing.”
Serving others. Bringing them the truth.
Like the times when they’ve talked with Mrs. Wellman about her oldest son, who died in an accident at age four, and where he is now and what he’s doing. Like the times when they’ve shared Church magazines with her, or watched the video Called to Serve.
“Don’t just let her borrow it,” Chris said then. “Let’s have her over here and we’ll all watch it together.”
These are, after all, brothers who are close in more ways than appearance. “We talk about everything together,” Jason says. “Now we’ll just do it through our letters.” That will make for some pretty great letters. Letters they’ll share with Mom and Dad and Allison. Letters they’ll share with the Wellmans and their kids. Letters they’ll share with close friends. Letters in which they’ll bear testimony and record the adventures of two years spent preaching the gospel.
“In the past we looked at missions like they were something they ask you to do,” Jason says. “Once we got closer to it, we thought, ‘It’s the Lord and the prophet who call you, and their way is the right way to go.’ We’d go to church and come home in such a great mood. We talk to everybody about it.”
That includes the 12- and 13-year-old Sunday School class he and Chris teach together.
“I’m learning more and more about the gospel,” Jason says, “especially when we talk about things like the plan of salvation and patriarchal blessings. It’s a learning experience. And I think a lot about Heavenly Father and how much he loves us. He gave up his son for us. He must have a lot of love for us to do something like that.”
“Being as close as I am to my brother,” Chris continues, “it gives me some understanding of how close I should be to the Savior, who is also my brother. Even though Jason and I will be apart during our missions, we’ll be close to Him. And that will make the bond between us even stronger.”
Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. That’s the something that makes these twins different from a lot of their peers, but exactly the same in what truly counts.
Editor’s note: Since this story was written, both Chris and Jason have arrived in Argentina and are faithfully serving their missions.

You begin with a stage, any stage, add a few lively and talented young people who are active in the Church and interested in people, throw in a drum roll and bright lights, and “Ladies and gentlemen, we give you Genesis: the Beginning!” “Beginning” is a musical troupe of youth from Las Vegas, Nevada. The group’s music ranges from religious selections, such as “I Am a Child of God,” to popular and patriotic tunes. Interspersed with the group’s numbers are solo selections from any one of the 18 high school singers and dancers. This group even has its own 12-member band.
“Beginning” began in the spring of 1974 and was under the sponsorship of the Las Vegas East Stake Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women. At first, they only performed for ward dinners and stake functions, but invitations from other groups came quickly as word spread of their talent. The youth have been able to capitalize on this interest to use their music as a missionary tool and to demonstrate the range of activities and service projects for youth in the Church.
They were scheduled for a short performance in the summer of 1976 at the Jaycee State Fair in the Las Vegas Convention Center when they so impressed Fair officials that they added a special concert and dance featuring the group. But not being content with just sharing their musical talent, “Beginning” has also concentrated on service. They involve themselves in a special project regularly for three different convalescent homes in the Las Vegas area. At least one afternoon a month, the members gather to bring their music to the older residents of these homes. The residents of the center feel a special kinship and love for the youth—they asked them to participate in the Convalescent Benefit Carnival that is sponsored by members of the homes to raise money for special patient needs.
Another imaginative service project that is now being prepared is the making of a fantasy film based on the popular Wizard of Oz tale. “Beginning” members created their own costumes, including a gnome king, scarecrow, tin woodsman, and Jack the Pumpkinhead, as well as the script. The fantasy is being filmed by one of the group’s advisers. Upon completion, the film will be used for a benefit and then donated to the Las Vegas East Stake Relief Society for use in their nursery classes.
Many of the members of “Beginning” are officers in their ward Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women programs. As ambassadors of the Church and their stake they abide by Church standards in behavior and dress. Three of the members are recent converts and “that’s the biggest thrill of them all.”

I am sure that family prayer motivated a letter written some years ago by a young Latter-day Saint girl attending a Colorado high school. The students had been asked to prepare a letter to be written to a great man of their choice. Many addressed their letters to well-known athletes, to a noted astronaut, to the president of the United States, and to other celebrities. This young lady, however, addressed her letter to her father, and in the letter she stated: “I have decided to write this letter to you, Dad, because you are the greatest man that I have ever known. The overwhelming desire of my heart is that I might so live that I might have the privilege of being beside you and Mother and other members of the family in the celestial kingdom.” That father never received a more cherished letter.

I grew up in Monterrey, Mexico, in the state of Nuevo León. My parents were faithful Latter-day Saints, and I can’t remember a single time when we failed to attend church. When I was five or six years old, my father owned an old dump truck that he used to haul construction materials and garden soil. Each Sunday my sisters and I climbed up into the bed of that truck while my father and mother climbed into the cab. Then we drove to the home of my cousins, where their family climbed up to join us. Next we picked up the Gonzales family, then the Solanos family, and so on. By the time we arrived at the chapel, the dump truck was filled not with soil, but with Saints.
Some people who lived nearby thought it was most entertaining to watch more than 20 men, women, and children in white shirts and ties or Sunday dresses come pouring out of a dusty dump truck. Neighbors came outside each Sunday just to enjoy the spectacle. They laughed at us, but we weren’t a bit embarrassed. We were happy to be going to church. We repeated that performance twice each Sunday all through the 1960s.
When the truck wasn’t available, my family walked. Even if it was raining or cold or sizzling hot, we walked just the same, though it took at least an hour going and an hour coming back. And in those days there were Church services in the morning and the afternoon. We always attended both.
When I returned to Monterrey after many years, every one of my fellow dump truck passengers was still active in the Church. That experience united us and made us strong. I still attend all my meetings. How can I do less now than I did then?

Don Stout was drafted during World War II. In 1943 he wrote me a letter from Europe. The tank in which he was riding had turned upside down in a pond of water, and he and his comrades were there for several hours not knowing if they were going to drown or suffocate. He shared some of his experiences with me, and then in the last paragraph he said, “Vaughn, I want you to know I have never had a beer or a cigarette, never a drink of liquor or tea.” He said, “I have never had coffee or even a cola drink in spite of all the pressure from the boys in my company.” I told a friend about Don’s not drinking or smoking, and he said it was impossible; no man could do that. And I said, “If Don said he did it, he did it.”
I was 12 when I read his letter, and even then I wept as I thought about him, and I decided right then and there that I was going to walk in high places like Don Stout.

On my birthday one Sunday morning, my husband and I were getting ready for church when the phone rang. I answered, and the bishop said, “I know today is your birthday, but could you meet with me in my office in 30 minutes? I would like to talk with you.”
Curious, I hurried to church.
In his office, the bishop said to me, “Sister Cruz, I have a birthday present for you. The Lord is calling you to serve as Young Women president. Will you accept this calling?” I felt overwhelmed, but I accepted the calling. I was sustained and set apart that day.
When I returned home after church, I sat on my bed. The weight of responsibility hit me. I cried and felt inadequate for the work. What a responsibility to guide those young women! I was baptized when I was 22 and had never attended Young Women activities before. How could I be Young Women president?
I did the only thing I knew to do: I knelt and asked Heavenly Father for guidance in this new calling. At that moment I had an experience I will never forget. As I visualized each young woman, I understood that each was a daughter of Heavenly Father. Each needed a president who loved her and could help her understand that God loved her. In my mind I saw the names of all the less-active young women (whom I had never met), and I understood that they were also daughters of Heavenly Father and needed my attention. I felt each one’s potential.
The following months were not easy. I worked hard to get to know each young woman and to understand her needs. Together with the active young women, our presidency helped those who had been less active return to activity. I saw the hand of the Lord at work in many ways.
When I was released from my calling, I worried that perhaps I could have done more. Upon arriving home, I knelt and asked Heavenly Father if my service had been acceptable. I received a sweet feeling that He was pleased.
I thought back on that birthday when I could have turned down the calling because of all my other responsibilities. But I am the one who would have lost most by not accepting the calling. I would have lost the opportunity to learn humility, gain understanding, develop patience, and become an instrument in the Lord’s hands. But mostly I would have failed the Lord in the confidence He placed in me, and I would have failed to learn that the opportunity to serve is a gift.

Back in the mid-’90s, during my college years, I was part of the Fourth Company of the Santiago Fire Department in Chile. While serving there, I lived at the fire station as part of the night guard. Toward the end of the year, I was told that I had to be at the fire station on New Year’s Eve because on that day there was almost always some emergency. Surprised, I replied, “Really?”
Well, I remember waiting with my associates when, at midnight, fireworks began shooting off in downtown Santiago. We started hugging each other with well wishes for the new year. Suddenly the bells at the fire station began ringing, indicating that there was an emergency. We got our equipment and jumped on the fire engine. On our way to the emergency, as we passed crowds of people celebrating the new year, I noticed that they were largely unconcerned and carefree. They were relaxed and enjoying the warm summer night. Yet somewhere nearby, the people we were hurrying to help were in serious trouble.
This experience helped me realize that although our lives may at times be relatively smooth, the time will come for each of us when we will face unexpected challenges and storms that will push the limits of our ability to endure. Physical, mental, family, and employment challenges; natural disasters; and other matters of life or death are but some of the examples of the storms that we will face in this life.
When faced with these storms, we often experience feelings of despair or fear. President Russell M. Nelson said, “Faith is the antidote for fear”—faith in our Lord Jesus Christ (“Let Your Faith Show,” Ensign or Liahona, May 2014, 29). As I have seen the storms that affect people’s lives, I have concluded that no matter what kind of storm is battering us—regardless of whether there is a solution to it or whether there is an end in sight—there is only one refuge, and it is the same for all types of storms. This single refuge provided by our Heavenly Father is our Lord Jesus Christ and His Atonement.

The Three Princes In this beautifully illustrated tale from the Middle East, a wise and lovely princess told her three suitors that she would marry the one who brought her the thing of greatest wonder. One uses his gift, a crystal ball, to learn that she is dying. The second uses his gift, a flying carpet, to take the suitors to her in time for the third to use his gift, an orange with special powers, to heal her. The gifts were of equal value in saving her life, but she could only marry one of the suitors. … Eric A. Kimmel8–12 years

That testimony and the knowledge that prayers are heard and answered helped Vincent on another day. His brother Gaetan (13) wanted to go out into the backyard. He thought that the plate-glass back door was open, and ran through it, shattering the glass. The broken glass severely cut the nerves and arteries in both his arms. His sisters Sandra (19) and Sonia (17) were home. They quickly called for an ambulance and put pressure on Gaetan’s arteries to slow the bleeding.
Just then Vincent, Sophie (9), and Samantha (5) walked into the house. When they saw all the blood and broken glass, they were scared and started to cry. Vincent realized that his older sisters were doing all that could be done for Gaetan, so he led Sophie and Samantha upstairs and out of the way. “We were afraid that Gaetan would die,” Vincent said, “so we huddled together and prayed for him. After the prayer, we all felt much better, and I knew that everything would be OK.”
The ambulance and Sister Poulaert soon arrived. Gaetan was rushed to the hospital. Brother Poulaert was there and gave his son a priesthood blessing, after which Gaetan felt much better. After four hours of microsurgery to repair the nerves and arteries in his arms and hands and four days in the hospital, Gaetan was able to go home.
Vincent Poulaert and his family have learned that just as the Savior called on His Father for strength in difficult times, they can, too. They know and are grateful that Heavenly Father hears and answers their prayers.

I was living away from home for the first time when my parents separated. It was only my first month of college, and as my family life shifted, I struggled to understand the meaning of the word home. When my parents divorced and my family moved out of the home I had lived in for the last 18 years, I was especially confused. I knew I wasn’t homeless, but I certainly felt that way.
I have often heard the Church described as a “refuge from the storm” (D&C 115:6). Institute became that refuge for me as I battled this new storm in my life. I enrolled in institute, and while I don’t recall the exact words spoken in the lessons, I will never forget the feelings of peace and comfort that came to me as I listened. I began to discover the love my Heavenly Father has for me, and I became much more closely acquainted with the best counselor I have ever found: Jesus Christ.
I have to pay for my college education, yet I learn the most valuable lessons from institute classes, which are available to me for free. I see now that the definition of home isn’t necessarily the house in which you grow up but a place where life’s lessons are taught and love abounds. Because of what I learned and the Spirit I felt, institute has become a new home for me. It is wonderful having a place where I feel loved and welcome.

I plead that we will not procrastinate and that we will heed our Lord’s commandment to live the law of the tithe. I know of two missionaries who visited a very poor family. The family’s home was made of pressboard and sticks, with a dirt floor and no electricity or beds. Each evening the father, a farm laborer, spent his entire day’s wages on groceries for dinner. Departing from their humble home, the senior companion thought to himself, “The law of tithing will surely be a stumbling block to this family. Perhaps we shouldn’t bring it up for a while.” A few moments later, the junior companion, who had grown up in similar circumstances in his own country, voiced his own thoughts aloud: “I know the principle of tithing isn’t taught for four more discussions, but can we please teach it the next time we visit? They need to know about tithing now because they need the help and the blessing of the Lord so much.”
This missionary understood that “there is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” The Lord wants to bless this family and anxiously awaits their obedience so He can.