Gospel Story Finder

Because World War II was just over, I was very happy. We had recently married and our first-born child had arrived. I love my husband very much and felt myself growing in the warmth of his love for me. Then, in the fall of 1946, a drastic change occurred. My husband came home, beaming, and told me that he had found a treasure more precious than all others—the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I was miserable. I would not listen to his explanations. When he was baptized on 7 January 1947, I felt that an impassable gulf had opened between us. The next nine months were almost unendurable.
Then, one morning, I woke up particularly unhappy. Somehow I knew that I had been wrong, that my husband had been telling me the truth, and that I must join his church. Despite my confusion, I knew I must be baptized, and on 8 November 1947, my husband brought me into a new life. It was the happiest day of my life, filled with a joy I cannot describe.

Josh Escobedo of Pioche, Nevada, likes to build things. Working with his father throughout his life, Josh learned carpentry and roofing skills that would help him win awards and a college scholarship.
When Josh’s father passed away last year, Josh was glad he had stuck with his dad during the long, hot hours building and constructing homes and other structures. Not only had Josh acquired carpentry skills; he learned a lot about life.
“When I used to work with my father, I never thought I was learning much. It seemed like a drag at first. Later, I realized he just wanted to teach me how to work,” says Josh.
Josh also learned something else from his father—how to be a good example. At a Vocational Industrial Clubs of America competition in Washington, D.C., Josh had lots of opportunities to show others how strong his convictions are.
“My friend and I were with some of the other guys, and we ordered soft drinks. One by one, all of the other guys ordered that, too. I felt good because I was an influence that night,” says Josh.
Now preparing to leave for a mission, Josh is glad for all the challenges and trials he has faced, saying they have made him stronger. Part of that strength is Josh’s strong testimony.
“I love the Lord and what he does for me,” says Josh. “I’m glad I’ve read the Book of Mormon and for the strong foundation and example it gives.”

One day, Wilford was feeding pumpkins to his father’s cattle in a pasture.
He noticed that one large bull was eating more than his fair share, so Wilford decided to take one of his pumpkins away.
Wilford: He ate one of that cow’s pumpkins! I’ll show him who’s boss.
The bull was so mad at Wilford that he started chasing him down the pasture hill.
Luckily, Wilford tripped and fell to the ground, and the pumpkin went flying out of his hands. The bull jumped right over Wilford and tore the pumpkin to pieces with his horns.
Wilford: If I hadn’t tripped, that would’ve been me getting torn to pieces!

When the prophet dedicated the Curitiba Brazil Temple on June 1, 2008, he called a lad up to assist him at the cornerstone ceremony. A photographer suggested someone take off the boy’s hat for a picture. The boy had no hair and was obviously undergoing cancer treatments. President Monson lovingly put his arm around him and helped him place mortar on the wall. One of those accompanying the President mentioned it was time to go back in the temple to finish the dedication on schedule. President Monson shook his head. “No,” he said, “I want to call up one more.” Looking over the crowd, he settled on a woman at the back, and as their eyes met, he motioned for her to come forward. He put his arm around her and with loving care escorted her to the wall to finish the cornerstone sealing.
The day after the dedication, Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who had also been at the dedication, asked President Monson how he knew the woman was the boy’s mother.
“I didn’t know,” he replied, “but the Lord knew.”
It was not many months later that the boy died. Elder Nelson says: “You can imagine what [the experience at the dedication] meant to the mother of that family. That was the Lord’s way of saying, ‘I know you, I am concerned for you, and I want to help you.’ That’s the kind of man we’ve got in this prophet of God.”11

At Christmas time we often hear people talk about already being in the Christmas spirit or not yet. The prospect of a white Christmas, a visit to a Christmas market and preparing presents or that special Christmas feast are popular ways to summon that legendary festive cheer.
Unfortunately, the actual meaning of Christmas is often lost along the way. I was able to learn this lesson very intensively on my mission. In December 1997 my companion and I were transferred to a small town in Wales and settled in together. There was a very small, loving ward there. We enjoyed our time there and worked hard, hoping to tell people about Christ. During the second half of December we noticed how all the companionships, in a virtually competitive atmosphere, reported where and how often members invited them for dinner. It almost seemed like a sport, cramming as many Christmas dinners as possible into the two Christmas holidays. Many of the more experienced missionaries spoke about how delicious the traditional Christmas dinner was and could hardly wait for that special day to arrive. Amidst all this gladness, my companion and I realised that we had not even received a single invitation yet. Something was wrong. But we did not want to impose ourselves either and kept hoping that someone might yet invite us for dinner. Nothing happened, while Christmas was approaching fast. Just before Christmas we held a zone conference, where all the missionaries serving in Wales came together. A wonderful spirit permeated that conference. But what mattered much more to us missionaries were our packages from home that were given to us. Giddily, my companion and I returned to our flat. Defying all my parents’ rules and admonitions on the package, I opened it that same night. It contained a few small presents, a letter from my parents and Christmas sweets. I was delighted! It was a great evening, with both of us enjoying the goodies received from home. With the small caveat that it was not actually Christmas yet.
Sadly, we had not received any dinner invitation by the 24th of December. To make matters worse, the 24th happened to be a preparation day and we had planned to play football (soccer) with all the other missionaries, after which everyone would go straight to their respective dinner appointments. We were very disappointed to learn that the other elders had forgotten to give us a ride to the event. My companion and I walked the streets of our town in the rain, just to kill time. We were anything but in the Christmas mood.
Tired and disappointed, we returned home in the evening to prepare a meal. I remember vividly stepping into our flat, the heating broken yet again and the Christmas packages from our families long unpacked and consumed. Gloomily, I stood in our living room, feeling very lonely and unhappy indeed. All I could do was turn on some Christmas music. So I did. Handel’s Messiah was on and my gaze wandered to a picture of our Saviour and older brother, Jesus Christ. A picture as it can be seen in thousands of missionary flats: taped to the wall crooked, without a frame. And all of a sudden, it was Christmas! I knew why I was here. I knew what we were celebrating and what really mattered.
I have celebrated many wonderful Christmases in my life and beautiful memories abound. That Christmas in Wales in 1997, however, has probably been my most intense Christmas yet. The real gift I received that Christmas was a more intense love for my Saviour and friend, Jesus Christ.

My first assignment was the Ashtabula Ward, part of the Kirtland stake. On our way to my first area, my companion, Elder Shawn Patrick Murphy, and I stopped at the Newel K. Whitney store in Kirtland. Today there is a large visitors’ center there, but at the time it was a small place. I remember walking up the stairs to the room above the store where Joseph Smith held the School of the Prophets. I knew little of the history of the place, but I still felt something distinct as we entered that plain room with its simple wooden benches.
The director of the center was a former mission president, President Brewer. As he spoke about this place where the Brethren studied and learned together, I felt the Spirit deeply. I began to see the role Kirtland played as a hinge point in the history of the Church.
In the early 1830s, Independence, Missouri, was identified as the site of the New Jerusalem. The Saints had begun to settle there. But they were then forced out because of differences with other Missouri residents and opposition to the Saints’ beliefs. In 1834, Joseph organized a group of about 230 men, women, and children, later known as Zion’s Camp. They were to travel 900 miles (1,450 km) from Ohio to Missouri to help the Saints regain land they had legally purchased. The journey was not successful in getting the land back, but it created a setting that helped prepare many future leaders of the Church, including Church Presidents Brigham Young and Wilford Woodruff.
It wasn’t just the preparation of leaders that was important. The sanctifying effect of Zion’s Camp prepared a people who were willing to sacrifice to build a temple.
In Kirtland, the Prophet received revelation after revelation about the organization of the Church, all in preparation for what would be the crowning achievement—the building of the temple.1 And sacrifice literally brought forth the blessings of heaven.2 The Saints were so poor they could hardly afford the necessities of life. Yet they consecrated their time, talents, and possessions—the very covenant we make in the temple today—to build the house of the Lord.
Today the Kirtland Temple is owned and maintained by another church—the Community of Christ. When a guide from that church took us through the building, I felt the Spirit as he quoted from journals of those who witnessed marvelous events at the temple’s dedication. These events included seeing angels and the temple seeming to be ablaze with light.3 The Spirit confirmed to me that this had indeed been a house of God.
I served in the Ashtabula Ward for seven months. Almost every preparation day, we took those we were teaching to visit the Newel K. Whitney store and talk about the Kirtland Temple. Many times we recited the inspiring account of Christ’s appearance at the temple:
The Lord Appears in the Kirtland Temple, by Del Parson
“His eyes were as a flame of fire; the hair of his head was white like the pure snow; his countenance shone above the brightness of the sun; and his voice was as the sound of the rushing of great waters, even the voice of Jehovah, saying:
“I am the first and the last; I am he who liveth, I am he who was slain; I am your advocate with the Father” (Doctrine and Covenants 110:3–4).
In addition to the Savior, others also visited the temple—Moses, Elias, and Elijah. They committed to Joseph keys for the gathering of Israel, the dispensation of the gospel of Abraham, and temple and family history work. (See Doctrine and Covenants 110:10–16.)
Because these visitations are so significant, I think we sometimes overlook the significance of other things that also occurred. In the dedicatory prayer, Joseph Smith addressed the Lord God of Israel, “who keepest covenant and showest mercy,” and pleaded with the Lord to “accept the dedication of this house unto thee, the work of our hands, which we have built unto thy name” (Doctrine and Covenants 109:1, 78).
By appearing in answer to that prayer, Jesus Christ, as the mouthpiece of God the Father, showed that He accepted His house, the ordinances that would be performed there, and the covenants that would be made there. That acceptance has been granted to every temple that has been dedicated since then, as well as to the covenants made and ordinances performed in those temples.
In the dedicatory prayer, Joseph also specifically asked the Lord to bless those who served in presidencies, as well as their families. Today, those blessings are extended to Relief Society presidents, quorum presidents, Young Women presidents, stake presidents, mission presidents, and so on. (See Doctrine and Covenants 109:71.) Then Joseph asked the Lord to “remember all thy church, O Lord, with all their families … that thy church may come forth out of the wilderness of darkness, and shine forth” (Doctrine and Covenants 109:72–73).
Joseph sought specific blessings for presidencies and their families, for members and their families, and for the Church as a whole. We regularly witness the fulfillment of those blessings as the Church shines forth as a light in the darkness.
The dedication of the Kirtland Temple exemplifies for me three basic truths:
We are blessed when we prepare for the temple. The Saints had to prepare for the Kirtland Temple to be built. They had to sacrifice, purify themselves, and develop willing hearts. We need to do the same to become more ready to receive blessings the Lord has for us.
We can receive revelation in the house of the Lord. The visions given to Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery in the Kirtland Temple provided guidance, direction, and understanding. On a personal level, we can also find inspiration when we go to the temple seeking answers.
We can find refuge in the temple. In a time of persecution and poverty, the Saints in Kirtland found that the house of the Lord was a sanctuary from the worries surrounding them. The same is true for us today.
Over the years, I have found that the things I learned about the temple as a young missionary in Ohio have blessed my family and me. For example, in the temple a year after we were married, my wife, Amy, and I received an impression that it was time to have a child. We were students, and because of tight finances I was tempted to cast the prompting aside. But the Lord was preparing us.
We had three miscarriages over the next two years, and I wondered, “Why the prompting to have children if we’re not able to have them?” Then we moved to California, worked with a fertility specialist, and finally had our first child, Mackenzie.
By following the inspiration we received in the temple, we began a process that took three years. If we had not followed the prompting when we did, it would probably have been at least another three years before we had our first child. We count that experience as a blessing of preparation and revelation.
We had a second child, Emma, but then we had another miscarriage and the loss of our son, Stewart. In subsequent months and years, as we sought peace, we learned that most of the symbols in the temple point us to the Savior and the healing balm only His Atonement can give.
I am grateful for the blessings of the temple. I testify to you that it is a place of preparation, revelation, and peace.

When I was a young woman, my family and I set a goal to begin memorizing “The Living Christ.” My mom thought it’d be helpful to put a copy of the document somewhere practical where we would see it every day and have time to study it. So, she put it in a plastic cover and taped it in the bathroom.
Each day, I would read through the document and practice memorizing bits and pieces.
The first few paragraphs became very significant to me—perhaps because I read them so many times trying to memorize them. But there was something about reading about where Christ walked and what He did that made Him seem more real to me. He truly was—and is—the living Christ.
“Though sinless, He was baptized to fulfill all righteousness. He ‘went about doing good’ (Acts 10:38), yet was despised for it. His gospel was a message of peace and goodwill. He entreated all to follow His example. He walked the roads of Palestine, healing the sick, causing the blind to see, and raising the dead. He taught the truths of eternity, the reality of our premortal existence, the purpose of our life on earth, and the potential for the sons and daughters of God in the life to come.”1
I remember being fascinated by the 15 signatures at the bottom of the document. I loved looking through the beautiful cursive writing to see if I could make out each of the names. Those 15 names represented 15 real people. And those 15 people were 15 representatives of Jesus Christ. They stood in unity bearing testimony of the Savior and His life and ministry. That was powerful to me.
In the April 2017 general conference, one of those witnesses, President Russell M. Nelson, encouraged all of us to study its truths, whether you’ve already memorized it or you’ve never read it entirely. “As you seek to learn more about Jesus Christ, I urge you to study ‘The Living Christ,’” he said.2
That experience in my youth stuck with me and instilled in me a lifelong desire to learn more about Jesus Christ. Even if I didn’t end up memorizing every single word of the document, I read it so many times that it strengthened my testimony of the living Christ and helped me draw nearer to Him.

Elder F. Burton Howard of the Seventy acquaints us with a strong testimony of the converting power of the Book of Mormon: Sister Celia Cruz Ayala of the Puerto Rico San Juan Mission decided to give the Book of Mormon to a friend. She wrapped it in attractive paper and set out to deliver her present.

On the way she was attacked by a bandit who stole her purse and with it the wrapped copy of the Book of Mormon. A few days later she received this letter:

“Mrs. Cruz:
“Forgive me, forgive me. You will never know how sorry I am for attacking you. But because of it, my life has changed and will continue to change. That book [the Book of Mormon] has helped me in my life. The dream of that man of God has shaken me. … I am returning your five pesos for I can’t spend them. I want you to know that you seemed to have a radiance about you. That light seemed to stop me [from harming you, so] I ran away instead.
“I want you to know that you will see me again, but when you do, you won’t recognize me, for I will be your brother. … Here, where I live, I have to find the Lord and go to the church you belong to.
“The message you wrote in that book brought tears to my eyes. Since Wednesday night I have not been able to stop reading it. I have prayed and asked God to forgive me, [and] I ask you to forgive me. … I thought your wrapped gift was something I could sell. [Instead,] it has made me want to make my life over. Forgive me, forgive me, I beg you.
“Your absent friend.”

Such is the conversion power of the Book of Mormon.

The winter that year was the coldest it had been in that part of the country for many years. The snow fell and the thermometer dropped lower as the days went on. Soon the ground froze hard, and ice began to form in the river.
I was a missionary in southern France and had come to this area expecting to find warm winters and pleasant summers. My expectations were realistic and were consistent with those of the native residents of the country. Like many of the apartments in that area, ours was built for warm weather. The walls were not insulated, and neither were the water pipes that were attached to the outer walls of the building. It was economical and suited the region.
As the days went on and the weather grew colder, the people grew colder also. Their attitudes became closed and narrow, which made our contacts with them more rare and difficult. We soon found that in the center of the city the water pipes were freezing, leaving people without water. The freeze spread like a plague, and we hoped that it would not reach our part of town. Anxiously we watched and waited, but it wasn’t long until we woke up one morning to a freezing cold apartment and no water. Many of the residents had family or friends in neighboring cities or a well in their backyard. We, of course, had no such resources.
We did the best we could to survive this difficult time by buying the expensive bottled water sold at the stores. We walked the 20-minute walk every morning to the chapel to wash up and cook. As time went on, we felt that we should get a bucket of water in our apartment that we could wash with and use in an emergency. We decided to take some time out of our Preparation Day to find someone who still had running water and would give us a bucketful.
We soon found that the cold attitudes that had met us during our regular tracting were repeated when it came to our earnest pleas for one bucket of water. The people responded to us with a coldness that equaled the bitter wind. The typical response we received was, “If I give you my water, then what will I drink? The more I give away, the less I will have.” It was hard for us not to become discouraged. The time wore on with no success, so we decided we would try one more door and then start back for home.
We approached the door with what energy we could and knocked. It was interesting to compare this day’s work with the work we usually did. The people didn’t understand the significance of what we were trying to say to them. They didn’t really care about what we presented. They just knew that they were busy and didn’t want to be disturbed by two sister missionaries, strangers in a foreign land, wearing long overcoats and black name tags.
A woman opened the door and looked at us with sympathy as we made our approach and explained our problem. Soon the answer came, which sounded at first like all of the rest, “One bucket of water?” And then she added, “One bucket of water—is that all? I will give you two, or three, or ten, or more. Keep coming back, because if I give my water away my pipes will never freeze. When the water is flowing, it doesn’t ice up. In a way, it is almost like in giving I am receiving.”
This one woman, in a country far from our homes, was living the way the Savior taught us when he said, “For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in” (Matt. 25:35).

The Kingston Ward, Albany New York Stake, really has learned to go the extra mile to succeed. With no gym in which to practice in their meetinghouse, many of the young women have to drive more than half an hour to basketball practices. But for the second year in a row, they have taken the regional championship.
The girls basketball team demonstrated not only their skill but good sportsmanship and love for each other. When they were congratulated by the stake, it was said of them, “You displayed fine sportsmanship and team effort. The team well represented the stake, and we are proud of you.”

During the Great Depression, the homeless, the downtrodden, the unemployed “rode the rails” that passed not far from our home. On numerous occasions, there would be a soft knock on the back door. When I opened the door, there I would see a man, sometimes two, ill-clothed, ill-fed, ill-schooled. Generally, such a visitor held in his hand the familiar cap. His hair would be tousled, his face unshaven. The question was always the same: “Could you spare some food?” My dear mother invariably responded with a pleasant, “Come in and sit down at the table.” She would then prepare a ham sandwich, cut a piece of cake, and pour a glass of milk. Mother would ask the visitor about his home, his family, his life. She provided hope and words of encouragement. Before leaving, the visitor would pause to express a gracious thank-you. I would note that a smile of content had replaced a look of despair. Eyes that were dull now shone with new purpose. Love, that noblest attribute of the human soul, can work wonders.

You may ask, “How do we seek personal revelation?” Paul counseled the Saints to rely on the Spirit rather than the wisdom of the world. To obtain that Spirit, we begin with prayer. President Lorenzo Snow had studied the gospel for several years before joining the Church. But he did not receive a witness until two or three weeks after his baptism when he retired in secret prayer. “The Spirit of God descended upon me,” he said. “O, the joy and happiness I felt … [for] I then received a perfect knowledge that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the holy Priesthood, and the fulness of the Gospel.”

My heart was pounding something fierce. I lifted the latch and poked my head out into the freezing night to see what had bumped the cabin. A snowcovered boot jammed the door open before I could slam it shut, and a fearful holler rose in my throat as a man pushed into the firelit room. He wore a British uniform. He was a redcoat!
Only two things could bring a redcoat to these frontier woods in the dead of winter: Either he was scaring up food for the British army, or he was hunting the injured patriot who was hiding in the loft of our barn.
I thought of darting out and heading down the trail Ma had taken a while ago, but my legs wouldn’t move. “If—if you are hunting food,” I quavered, “we hardly have any for ourselves.”
The redcoat’s eyes darted about the room, and I knew he could smell the soup that was bubbling in a pot over the coals.
The redcoat lifted the cover of the soup pot and sniffed. “You alone?” he asked.
His voice surprised me some. It was almost whisper-soft. But sometimes a voice can fool a person. Any redcoat looking for a patriot wouldn’t be softhearted.
I had to wet my lips before I could answer. “Ma—my ma went to visit some neighbors.”
The whole truth was that Ma had gone to the neighbors, hoping to borrow some medicine for the patriot’s swollen feet. While she was gone, I was supposed to have taken the warming rock and the soup to him. But I hadn’t—because I was scared of the dark. Now I was in a fine predicament: A patriot was in the barn loft and a redcoat was in the cabin!
I didn’t want to give the redcoat any soup, but I was afraid not to. I got a wooden bowl from behind the shelf curtain and slid it across the table to him.
He took off his coat and hung it over Ma’s rocker, making himself at home. He dipped deep into the soup pot, then straddled a stool before he started eating the hot soup.
Only once did he look up. “You have a pa?”
I could only nod.
“Off fighting for freedom, no doubt,” he remarked.
The redcoat had it all figured out. There was no need to say anything different. I was sure glad Pa wasn’t here to get packed off to some British camp by this redcoat. My next thought made me gulp, though. Maybe redcoats pack off youngsters too!
“It’s a crusade for freedom they can’t possibly win,” the redcoat went on, just like everything was cut and dried.
I felt my cheeks getting hot. I didn’t like what he said, on account of Pa. I blurted out without thinking, “Pa says we have to win!”
Those hawklike eyes pierced right into mine. I expected him to whop me, and I stiffened for the blow, but he only sighed. “I, too, believe some of the laws forced upon the colonists to be unfair.”
My chin dropped, and I stared at him.
“But that kind of thinking could make me a traitor to the king, now, couldn’t it, lad?”
I’d been thinking the same thing. No loyal redcoat would dare speak such words. Still, he might be soft-talking me just to trick me into telling something I’d be sorry for—like where the patriot was hidden. I suddenly wished I was strong and brave and could somehow save the fellow in the barn loft. But even if I could warn him, he couldn’t go far with such bad feet. He should have a chance to try, though.
While I was puzzling over what to do, the redcoat laid his head down on the table. He sure didn’t seem in any hurry to find the injured patriot.
The fire was burning down, and at first I was afraid even to put another log on the coals. Then I thought, Maybe if I make it cozy enough in here, the redcoat will go to sleep. So I put on another log, and it sputtered and sparked, and finally flames leaped up into a room-warming blaze.
The redcoat was tired, all right. But he was mighty slow about going to sleep. My legs started aching something fierce from waiting so tensely for him to drop off. Finally he did, though, and I tiptoed to the door, holding my breath.
I never thought about putting on my coat, until a blast of cold air rushed past the door as I opened it. I looked to where the coat hung on a peg at the back of the cabin, but I didn’t dare try to get it. As it was, my heart almost stopped when the redcoat stirred. I quickly leaped through the doorway and closed the door behind me.
The cold was icy on my face. I blinked, trying to see the path to the barn and the trail Ma had taken. Oh, did I want to run down that trail and find a safe place to hide! And as I thought of the patriot and hesitated, shivering, I saw something shadowy weaving along the barn path toward me! I froze, not knowing what it was and being too scared to move. Then it sprawled in the snow right at my feet. It was the patriot soldier!
I dropped down in the path beside him and whispered hoarsely, “Get up, or the redcoat will pack us both off, for sure!”
I was frightened because he lay so still. I grabbed his arms and tugged with all my strength, but I couldn’t budge him. I let him sag back down into the snow, then tried to shake him. When he didn’t move, I slapped at his face. I couldn’t tell if his face felt icy or if my fingers were numb. Oh, how I wished Pa or Ma were here!
I closed my eyes. I needed the Lord’s help badly.
I don’t want to run off and leave him! I don’t want to be the one to let him freeze and die! I wasn’t praying out loud. But the thoughts were inside me, asking the Lord to help me in my desperate need.
It was the terrible worry inside me that made me turn toward the cabin and holler to the redcoat. Then I hoped he hadn’t heard me. But he had. He stood in the light from the doorway and stared at me.
“He’s hurt bad,” was all I could say. “Please don’t hurt him any more.”
The redcoat dragged the patriot inside, making a snow trail across the cabin floor. I pushed the door shut with my elbow, glad to be in the warmth of the house.
“He your pa?” the redcoat asked.
I shook my head, then dropped down near the fire and put my head in my arms. Why did I do such a foolish thing? Now both my life and the patriot’s were in danger.
I could hear the redcoat moving about the room. I heard the patriot groaning. I even heard the redcoat yank down the shelf curtains, and I figured he was making fresh foot-wrappings for the patriot. But I didn’t care about anything anymore. My disappointment in myself was more than I could stand. Neither Pa nor Ma will ever be proud of me again, I thought.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and the redcoat’s whisper-like voice in my ear. “I must go,” was all that he said.
I swallowed hard and looked up. He had on his red coat. He sure doesn’t have a heart, I decided. He’s going to take us right now, while it’s still cold and dark.
I struggled up. I wanted to tell him how mean I thought he was.
He started for the door. I looked at the patriot, who lay wrapped in Ma’s patchwork quilt.
“You’re not taking him?” I blurted out. “Or me?”
He shook his head, and his eyes didn’t look so much like a hawk’s eyes now.
I stood with my mouth open and my heart thumping. I heard him say, “I came only for food and warmth and rest.”
Before he lifted the latch, the redcoat whipped up a hand, said, “You’re a brave lad,” and gave me a salute. I don’t know exactly why I saluted back, but I did.

Two years ago one of our daughters was seriously ill and hospitalized for several weeks. Our entire family was deeply concerned. Michelle suggested in a family home evening that her family fast for their aunt. The family agreed. The next day Michelle quietly fasted. She even asked for permission from her teacher to stay in the classroom during the lunch hour so she would not be tempted to eat. Her little brother Neal did not do so well. He cried when he arrived home from school because he had not been able to resist when a boy offered him a cookie. I was proud of both of them.

In a recent fast and testimony meeting, Charlotte, age six, bore her testimony, expressing love for her parents, the Church, and President Kimball. To her parents’ surprise, 3-year-old Laura followed. She gave a powerful sermon in a few words by saying, “I know my sisters love me. I love my sisters.” And then she sat down.

Tyler, now 5 years old and anxious to start school, prays with the maturity of an adult. His prayers are very personal and always different, as he talks to his Heavenly Father in a meaningful way. His little brother Brandon is following in his footsteps. Although it is difficult to understand him, it is obvious that he, too, loves Heavenly Father.

When I ask my grandsons what they are going to do when they turn nineteen, they all reply, “I hope they call me on a mission.” In fact, all of them have missionary savings accounts and our granddaughters are saving for temple marriage hope chests.

Not long ago my wife and I shared a family home evening with a daughter’s family. The father was a seventy and involved in stake missionary work. To our delight, Robbie, eight years old and newly baptized, brought out his father’s flip charts and gave us a discussion from the missionary lessons. I would like to be that young man’s mission president someday.

Robbie, Dan, and Melissa’s older brother Joey is mentally retarded. He lives at the training school in American Fork, Utah. When they visit him, they play with Joey and the other special children who live with him. To see how they share their love is a sacred experience. They really enjoy the opportunity of making Joey and his friends happy, and they return to their home uplifted and enriched by the experience. It causes them to love one another even more.

As we have attended the baptismal services for our grandchildren, we’ve shared their happiness in becoming members of the Church. After her baptism, Amy innocently wrote in her journal: “When I was baptized, it was fun because I became a member of the Church. … Now it is all over and I don’t have any more sins and I don’t have to worry.” Seeing these precious children reach out to take their fathers’ hands in complete faith and trust as they enter the baptismal font has been one of the most beautiful sights I have witnessed. Then, joining with others in placing my hands on their heads as they have been confirmed and having their fathers give them the gift of the Holy Ghost and a father’s blessing have been experiences I shall never forget.

If I sound like a proud grandfather, I am—just as proud as your grandfathers are of you. Our grandchildren are our treasure—special spirits entrusted to us by our Father in heaven. We know what a royal generation you are! We love you and have faith in you.

I pray that my grandchildren, and grandchildren everywhere, will understand what Jesus taught and will be converted to His gospel. I hope they remain as little children, full of love and faith, so that they all might enter into the kingdom of heaven.

One Sunday, seated in front of the television with my cigarettes and usual bottle of wine, I heard the doorbell. Opening the door, I saw two young men in blue suits, with name tags identifying them as missionaries. The room I invited them into was full of smoke and the smell of alcohol, but they were undeterred and began to question me about my beliefs. Did I believe in God?
That made me stop and think. Though I had been baptized as a little boy, I had never been a churchgoer—I thought religion was not worth it. Rather, I believed in my conscience and the need to be honest with my fellowmen. Yet I surprised myself and answered yes to their question. As they continued and began to teach me about Joseph Smith and the Restoration, it seemed as though I had already heard their words. An indescribable feeling began to come over me, and I loved these young men. When they offered a prayer, I began to cry, and my heart began to swell until I felt it would burst.
We made an appointment for the following Tuesday, and during the interval, my life passed before me as in a film. Until the age of twenty, I had abstained from alcohol. But then a business failure and financial difficulties sent me into a deep personal crisis, compounded by my wife’s illness and two-year convalescence in a distant hospital. I sought comfort in alcohol, and before long I began to drink quantities of strong spirits from morning until night. Add to that the 70 to 100 cigarettes I smoked daily and you can understand that my physical condition deteriorated gradually to the point where I was embarrassed about it.
At one point I entered a hospital to be detoxified, but the doctors were unable to help me and I became even more depressed. I had a good job and a wonderful family, but I needed to get out from under these vices. In desperation I abandoned myself even more completely to alcohol, at one point even attempting suicide. I tried to enter a private clinic for help, but could not afford the treatments. It was at this point that Elders Sorensen and Waterman entered my life.
When they returned for our second meeting, the two missionaries spoke to me of many new things that I did not know but felt were true. When they told me about the Word of Wisdom, I felt my heart sink, and I said “Tell me how I, of all persons, can give up alcohol, since I have tried every way I know how, and have had no success.” They asked me if I believed in God and in the things they had taught me and if I felt that I had faith in the Lord. I replied that I did.
“Good,” they said. “If you will listen to us, we’ll help you and the Lord will give you the power to overcome your problem.” “I’ll be infinitely grateful,” I answered. Their exhortations filled me with joy, with hope, and with faith, and I really desired in my heart to follow their guidance. When I prayed I felt more and more self-confidence, and from that morning, with my newborn courage, I imposed the rule that I would never drink cognac again. And I was able to maintain that rule though I suffered greatly. With the help of the elders, and with humility, I was able to gradually reduce the doses of other alcoholic beverages and of cigarettes. It was not easy, but I felt the Lord near to me, helping me. I felt that I had to do my part and that I would not be alone in this trial.
After a month and a half I was able to overcome my vices. Finally free, I felt ready to be baptized, with my wife, on December 28, 1977. I came up out of the baptismal waters renovated in body and spirit, sure that the Lord forgets our sins if we are truly repentant. I can’t explain what a joy it was to abandon the old me and see myself reborn full of trust in myself and love for my fellowman. I had an immense desire to recover all the lost time showing gratitude to the Lord with a commitment to do everything that he commanded me.
Following my baptism, my health improved day by day. At first I continued to arise in the morning full of aches and pains. Getting up was a painful trial. But after prayer, I was able to go about my work serenely until the evening, when the problems returned. But then, one great day, I arose and realized that I was finally free of the pains. From that time forward I have had no problems.
After a year of Church membership, we were able to go to the temple, where my wife and our three daughters were sealed to me. Now we are truly a united family. I have been blessed with a number of challenging callings in the Church and can bear witness that, with humility and faith in the Lord, there is nothing impossible for man. I know, too, that observance of the Word of Wisdom brings health and strength—and the desire to use that strength in the service of the Lord.

Another mother I know of has sat alone at church for a number of years with her four young children. Seldom able to concentrate on the Savior during the sacrament, she formed a plan. Now she tries to spend time each Saturday reviewing her week and thinking about her covenants and what she needs to repent of. “Then,” she says, “no matter what kind of an experience I have with my children on Sunday, I am prepared to partake of the sacrament, renew my covenants, and feel of the cleansing power of the Atonement.”

Elder Pratt was soon reunited with his family on Tubuai, and over the next 18 months, he oversaw the Church throughout the islands. Louisa and Telii became close friends, often working together to serve the women of the Tubuai Branch.13 In 1852, compelled by tensions with the French colonial authorities, Louisa and the other missionaries prepared to leave French Polynesia. In a final sermon to the sisters of Tubuai, Louisa begged them to continue in faith and entrusted their teaching to Telii. “We appointed Telii their guardian,” Louisa recalled.14

SRI LANKA—Manoj Kumar Perera met a man that would change his life forever. Was it a coincidence or providence?

Tourists love to see the sites of beautiful Sri Lanka such as religious monuments, elephant orphanages, beautiful landscapes and safaris. Kumar is in the travel business, scheduling trips for tourists and business travelers alike. Some of these trips he personally chauffeurs and has opportunities to meet a variety of people.

In 2013, Kumar had just finished a tour at a hotel by Crescat shopping mall in Colombo, Sri Lanka. He noticed a gentleman standing there waiting and asked if he needed a ride somewhere. The man said “yes, if you can help me.” The man told him it was his first time to Sri Lanka. His name was David Berrett, president of the India Bengaluru Mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Minutes later Kumar dropped him at the church. President Berrett seemed surprised how easily he navigated so he asked for Kumar’s phone number before they parted ways.

Two minutes later, President Berrett called Kumar and asked if he could pick up his wife at the same hotel and bring her to the church. Again, impressed with his services, he decided to make Kumar his regular Sri Lanka driver. Over time, President and Sister Berrett became good friends with Kumar and his family.

After a while, and as his schedule permitted, Kumar decided to attend church at the local branch. Seeing something different and good there he decided it would be good for his children. They enjoyed it and a few months later were baptized members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I brushed the raindrops off my nose and opened the back door just as my little sister, Mikey, came dancing into the kitchen. She was carrying a shoe box and a newspaper. “Hey, Mikey, what’s in the box?” I asked.
She looked at me and raised her eyebrows, her chipmunk cheeks bulging with vanilla wafers. “Stuff.” She turned and skipped down the hall to her room.
My brother, Joe, looked over the top of his peanut-butter sandwich. “It’s a present for Dad’s birthday tomorrow,” he said between bites.
“But what is it?”
“Mithens,” he mumbled, his mouth full of peanut butter and jelly.
“Did you say mittens?”
He nodded. “She’s giving Dad her pink sweater and her favorite mittens, the ones with the little clown faces on them. I saw her take them out of the hall closet.”
I started to laugh, picturing Dad trying to squeeze himself into Mikey’s little clothes, then covered my mouth so that Mikey wouldn’t hear.
“Don’t tell,” Joe warned, gulping down a glass of milk.
“I won’t,” I promised, still trying not to laugh.
It’s kind of weird. Some of my friends think their little brothers and sisters are pests. Sometimes I do get mad at Mikey. Like when she tried to feed my goldfish a bite of chocolate cupcake. It mucked up the water, and my fish almost died. But most of the time Joe and I think Mikey is just about the sweetest, best, funniest little sister in the whole world. Her real name is Michailah, after our grandmother, but everybody calls her Mikey.
After dinner, Mikey helped me dry the dishes. When I asked her if she wanted me to help her wrap her box, she put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “It’s a secret,” she announced. “I have to do it my own self.”
The next day when I got home from school, Mikey grabbed my hand and pulled me into the living room. There it was—Mikey’s box—wrapped up in the Sunday comics. There were pieces of tape sticking out all over. Mikey’s eyes were shining. “Daddy’s going to love it!”
I smiled, stooping down and putting my arms around her. “Well, I can see you’re pleased with yourself.”
She nodded and brushed a little lock of tangled hair off her forehead. “How much more longer till Daddy comes home?”
“Not long,” I told her.
Right after dinner, we helped Mom clear the table and put Dad’s birthday cake and presents on it. Then we all sat down. All except Mikey. She was so excited, she looked like a little rainbow lit up with sunbeams. She was practically dancing in her chair. “Pick mine, Daddy!” she squealed.
“And could this be it?” Dad smiled, reaching for the wrapped shoe box.
Mikey nodded. “Daddy, I didn’t have any money but I got you something special to keep you warm.”
Slowly Dad tore off the Sunday comics, then lifted the lid. I looked at Joe. He looked at me and winked. Dad lifted the pink sweater and little mittens from the box. “Ooooh!” he said. “A new sweater and mittens to keep me warm. Should I try them on?” His eyes twinkled.
Mikey put her hands over her mouth and started to giggle. “No, you funny Daddy! These are my stuff!” She reached out and snatched the sweater and mittens from Dad’s hands.
I looked at Joe. He looked at me, his eyebrows raised in a question mark. We looked at Mom. She looked puzzled, too. Dad just sat there with his mouth half open, looking confused.
Mikey slipped the soft pink sweater over her head and wiggled her hands into the mittens. “I didn’t get you clothes, Daddy.” She was still giggling. “I got you a hug!” She laughed, putting her sweatered arms around Dad’s neck and giving him a big squeeze. “See? It’s a nice wooly hug, and it’ll keep you warm in your heart,” she whispered, patting him gently with her soft mittens.
Dad didn’t look confused anymore. He was smiling, but his eyes were sort of misty. “Thank you, Mikey,” he said at last. “Thank you for a very special gift. I will remember it always.”
“Can I have one of those mitten hugs for my birthday, too?” Joe asked.
“Me, too?” I added.
Mikey shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “You don’t have to wait for your birthday ’cause you can have one right now!”

One Sunday morning before church I was playing our piano. I decided to open the piano top to watch the hammers move. When I lifted the top, a large glass vase full of flowers fell off the piano and crashed to the floor. My mom came running to find out what had made such a loud noise. She was unhappy when she saw that her new vase had been broken. She asked me if I had done it. At first I said “No,” but then I said “Yes,” because I knew it was the right thing to do. I asked my mum how much the vase cost, and she told me two pounds. But she said that I only needed to give her one pound to help buy a new one. I went upstairs to my room and got the money out of my piggy bank. I gave her a one-pound coin and then surprised her by hiding another one for her to find. I felt good when I told the truth and paid for the new vase. It made Mum happy too. I want to be like Jesus every day and give more than people ask of me.