Gospel Story Finder

Braden has always been interested in drama. He spent his time as a toddler with a pan on his head, talking to people no one could see. He made costumes out of old clothes. Later he organized plays using any of the neighborhood children he could talk into being the actors. The plays were produced in the Bell’s basement and were a frustration to him. “The only kids that would help him were the little ones, and they wouldn’t do what he told them to do. He was and is a perfectionist in the theater,” said JoLynn Bell, Braden’s mother.

Elder Thomas S. Monson
Some years ago, President Lee, directed by inspiration and revelation, called Dewitt J. Paul to serve as patriarch in one of the eastern stakes of the Church. The call humbled beyond words both Brother and Sister Paul. They wondered. They worried. They prayed for assurance and heavenly confirmation. Such did not come suddenly.
The vote of the people demonstrated their supporting approval. Then came the time for ordination. In a basement room situated two floors beneath the meeting hall in which the conference was held, Dewitt Paul nervously sat on a chair and, with a silent prayer in his heart, awaited his ordination. President Harold B. Lee then placed his hands upon the head of the newly called patriarch and began to speak. Peace replaced turmoil. Faith overcame doubt. Seated next to Sister Paul was a lifelong friend to whom Sister Paul had confided her concern. During the pronouncement of the blessing and ordination, she opened her eyes. As she did so she saw a ray of light shining upon President Lee as he placed his hands upon the head of Brother Paul. At the conclusion of the blessing, she hastened to tell Brother Lee of this confirmation of a call. She recounted how she saw the sunshine form the ray of light and how it brought a bright glow to the hands of President Lee. “Indeed, this is to you a confirmation of a sacred call,” said President Lee, “for as you look about this basement room, there is no window through which the sun might beam its rays.” Precious are the hands of a prophet.

For an example, may I refer to an experience which I heard a friend relate to me and to a public audience some years ago. He was talking about his boyhood. “My,” he said, “my twin brother and I had a boyhood filled with difficulty. We had a lovely mother and we had a fine father, but he had become addicted to drink. It was frequently our task to go to the saloon on Saturday night, at mother’s bidding, and bring father home. It was sad.” My friend continued: “On one occasion, my twin brother and I were celebrating our thirteenth birthday. We had invited our playmates to our home for a party and were playing games and enjoying the day when in stumbled father, dead drunk. He looked at us. Our embarrassed friends fled from the room. Mother had a pained expression upon her face. We said some unkind things to our father. ‘Can’t you stay sober, Dad? Even on our birthday?’” That young man stated, “My father turned to me and to my twin brother and said, ‘Boys, I’m sorry. I promise you I shall never touch another drop of liquor.’”
The same old story, the same old tune, and into the bedroom he went. The boys complained to their mother. They were harsh in their attitude toward Dad. But that wonderful mother said to them, “Boys, your father holds the priesthood, and one day he will honor it. So I ask that you honor him.”
The young man declared, “My father was true to his word. Never again did he touch liquor. He became the kindest and most considerate father twin boys could ever have. And oh the joy this change in Dad brought to our mother!” That father passed away some time ago, but that mother, who had the ability to inspire within her twin sons that a man’s word can be his bond when he really means it, had the privilege to see each of those twin sons called to serve as a mission president in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

It is a typical Saturday morning along the Salt Lake Valley’s Jordan River. The sun’s rays shimmer as they reflect off calm waters, the birds’ warbles create a peaceful harmony, and the squirrels’ chatter echoes through the trees. Suddenly, the usual tranquility of the early morning is interrupted as large clusters of people round a bend in the smooth trail that runs along the river. There are 500 people of all ages and denominations. What’s more, they are laughing and talking together.
Maybe this isn’t such a typical Saturday.
It was last April that Brighton High School senior Gweneth Thomas decided that she needed to get more involved in service. So she approached a representative of Church World Service, an interfaith organization dedicated to helping fellow Christians in times of need. She soon became at least 80 hours immersed in service as she agreed to become the organization’s first youth coordinator of the annual Christian Rural Overseas Program walk.
CROP walks are worldwide fundraisers for struggling countries in times of crisis. Volunteers are asked to pledge money and then walk a six-mile course to help them appreciate the hardships of fellow Christians all over the world.
The theme of the 1996 walk was “We walk because they walk,” referring to the individuals in many developing countries who must walk five or six hours a day to find food and water.
Besides raising money for the needy, Gweneth and her co-chair, Max Freeman, had a very specific goal in mind for the 1996 walk. They wanted members of the ten participating religions to work to break down the barriers between each other and move from intolerance to acceptance, from acceptance to respect, and finally from respect to love.
But before any of this could happen, Gweneth and Max felt they needed to get teenagers involved as well as adults. They started in their high school cafeteria. Fellow Brighton High students Alina Stay, Brenna Flynn, and Mindy Pitts observed their classmates’ reactions to Gweneth’s pleas for donations.
“What doesn’t seem like a lot of money to me will feed a lot of people [in another country],” says Mindy.
Brenna, a convert to the Church, was especially concerned with helping Gweneth and Max create peaceful interfaith relations through the walk.
The most exciting part of the event for her was seeing that goal fulfilled as “people from other faiths shared testimonies and showed the true spirit of Christianity without the normal my-church-is-better-than-your-church attitude,” she says.
“Build up trust and gain a respect for each other,” says Max.
And not only did the teens spur these good relations between denominations while donating money; they walked as well.
Perhaps it was the strenuous six-mile walk. Perhaps it was the wooden signs along the trails with poignant messages. Perhaps it was the experience of associating with people of many different faiths. Whatever the case, the mood at the picnic afterward was reflective.
Everyone seemed to sense what Gweneth put into words, “One person can make a big difference.”

The next Sunday was fast Sunday. I had hoped to make a discreet entry, but when we arrived it seemed that everyone greeted us with a smile and a kind word. Many people welcomed me to the ward and asked if I was new. However, when I quietly passed along the sacrament tray without partaking, my three-year-old loudly asked, “Mom, aren’t you hungry?” Then my 11-year-old stood up to bear her testimony and said how happy she was that her mom had quit drinking beer and had started coming back to church. So much for quietly sneaking in!

From the moment the inspiration to serve a full-time mission ignited within me, I felt a deep sense of urgency to begin preparing. I trusted that God had a precise and purposeful plan for me. I started my mission papers and completed all the necessary paperwork within just one month.
As I waited to complete the final preparations, I faced challenges that tested my faith. But those challenges were nothing compared to what I was about to face.
During this time, I experienced sexual assault. In the wake of the assault, I struggled to determine what my future would look like.
I had a new question: Why did I have to endure such a traumatic event, especially while I was trying to do the Lord’s work?
My life was engulfed in uncertainty, fear, and doubt. I believed that I was beyond repair. I couldn’t see how I would ever recover from such a devastating experience. I felt deeply isolated and filled with despair.
I worried that the experience had made me unworthy, so I reached out to my stake president for guidance. He suggested that I seek solace in Jesus Christ’s healing Atonement. He emphasized that Christ was the ultimate source of healing and peace and encouraged me to read the Book of Mormon.
I continued to grapple with confusion and doubt. My mind was clouded, and I didn’t know what to do. My stake president counseled me to put my mission papers on hold while I sought professional help from a psychologist. The coping mechanisms they taught me, along with support from friends, helped me in my healing process. But I especially found solace in the temple.
You Are Not Less Worthy
“The abuse was not, is not, and never will be your fault, no matter what the abuser or anyone else may have said to the contrary. When you have been a victim of cruelty, incest, or any other perversion, you are not the one who needs to repent; you are not responsible.
“You are not less worthy or less valuable or less loved as a human being, or as a daughter or son of God, because of what someone else has done to you.”
Elder Patrick Kearon, Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “He is Risen with Healing in His Wings: We Can Be More Than Conquerors,” Liahona, May 2022, 38.
During this period of intense pain, I also turned to God in prayer for healing, strength, and peace. As I immersed myself in the Book of Mormon, I started to experience a profound sense of calm. The healing power of Jesus Christ became especially meaningful to me. I came to the realization that what I had gone through was not my fault, and I felt comforted knowing that God was aware of my struggles and “will fight [my] battles” (Doctrine and Covenants 105:14). This understanding brought me the reassurance and clarity I sought.
Jesus Christ took upon Himself “the pains and the sicknesses of his people … that his bowels may be filled with mercy” (Alma 7:11–12). Christ possesses an intimate understanding of the past traumas we have endured and offers us solace and tranquility. He also enables us to forgive, even if it takes a very long time to do so.
As I’ve worked through my pain with both professional and spiritual help, I’ve gained peace. I recently received my temple endowment and my mission call, all thanks to the power of Jesus Christ.
Elder Patrick Kearon of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “Jesus specializes in the seemingly impossible. He came here to make the impossible possible, the irredeemable redeemable, to heal the unhealable, to right the unrightable, to promise the unpromisable. And He’s really good at it. In fact, He’s perfect at it.”
The truths of the Atonement of Jesus Christ became a reality to me as He made what I thought was impossible in my life possible. He healed my fears, doubts, and confusion, and miraculously, He healed me.

When he was 15, his family moved to New Jersey, where he had some of his most memorable testimony-building experiences. “It was during that time that my faith matured into a full-blown testimony,” he says. “I grew up with faith among family and friends and others who influenced my life; I don’t recall a time when I didn’t have that belief that the gospel was true. But in New Jersey I became conscious of knowing that it was true and that it mattered.”2
During that time, he and his brother Greg participated in the Hill Cumorah Pageant in New York for two summers. Once when he was about 16 years old, he was searching for a personal testimony of the gospel and thought that the pageant would be the perfect time to get it. He recalls:
“One night after the performance, I decided to go to the Sacred Grove alone. It was a beautiful, clear summer night. I thought, This is it—the place, the time. What more ideal setting could I have? I prayed for a long, long time—well over an hour. Nothing happened. I finally gave up and walked back to Palmyra, wondering, What did I do wrong or what didn’t I do right? What was missing?
“I’ve since thought a lot about that experience. One of the lessons I learned from it was that you shouldn’t try to dictate to God the timing or the content of revelation. It was later that summer—when I was home by myself in a little basement bedroom, reading the Book of Mormon—that a witness came very powerfully. It just overwhelmed me. I know from that experience the truth of what Joseph Smith witnessed and the truth of the Book of Mormon and the reality of the Savior. That hasn’t been my only witness, but it was a great strengthening of my testimony.
“I found that you don’t have to be in a special place to receive that witness. You will receive answers to your prayers if you are earnest and keep asking and searching. … Anywhere in the world, the Lord will speak to you.”3

You will be proud of me because I am going to memorize all the Articles of Faith before you come home. Mom is helping me. I already know the first two. I told Mom that I want to do the hardest one next, so we picked number thirteen. Every day she tells me part of it, and I repeat it until I have it memorized.
But maybe you can tell me something, Reed. Why do we believe in being chased by an elephant? Last night when Ben, Natalie’s date, came to get her for a movie, I told him that we believe in being chased by an elephant. Natalie told me not to be silly. But I was serious.
I think that I’ve figured out the mystery of being “chased by an elephant.” Sometimes things sound different from what they really are. What sounded to you like “chased by an elephant” is really “chaste, benevolent.” Those are big words, and they’re not easy to understand. Chaste means to be pure and clean in the things that we think and do. Benevolent means to be kind and loving in everything that we think and in our treatment of people and all other living things. Keep up the good work in your memorizing. I’m proud of you.

Trying to protect himself from the cold, Manco hunched with bent knees and pulled his pointed knit cap tightly over his ears. He was glad his brightly woven poncho hugged his body. A fierce wind swept up the rocky canyon, and there was snow in its breath.
Impatiently, Manco shifted his weight. When will Papacome? he wondered. He promised me that it would be today. The boy’s stiff fingers touched the bamboo flute that had been tucked into his belt earlier that morning.
“My son,” his father had said with just a trace of a smile pulling at the corners of his wide, wind-wrinkled mouth, “here is the flute I have been carving for you. Today, I will teach you to play it.”
Manco felt a flush of pleasure as he remembered his father’s words. His father was Túpac, the finest flute player in the region—perhaps in all Peru!
Manco carefully noted the location of each of the family’s llamas and alpacas. When he was certain that the flock was safe, he drew the flute from under his poncho.
Túpac had carved the tiny finger holes and the mouth hole with the greatest care as he hunkered down by the cooking fire in their home high on the mountainside. He and his family grew corn and potatoes on the steep slopes there, and he and Manco climbed even higher each day to tend their small herd.
Manco put the polished wood to his lips. He wanted to send a shimmer of sound—a sound like the ones his father made—into the crisp air. But he knew he could not. He would wait until Túpac returned and taught him how to do it properly. And, he thought, I will someday be the finest flute player in all Peru. Someday my fingers will fly over the tiny holes, rippling like the birdsong I will play. And someday the women will weep at my songs of mourning, even as they shed tears when Papa played for Sinchi, who was called to the land of spirits.
Manco stood suddenly. He saw a small, dark speck descending the white ridge high above him. As the speck grew larger, the boy could see his father’s bright red cap against the snow, his face bent down to protect it from the icy blasts. He was struggling awkwardly to keep the wind from blowing him off the ridge.
The boy quickly scanned the hillside. One of the young animals was missing! Why had he not noticed it before? He had failed in his task. Now he knew why his father was having such trouble coming down the mountainside; now he could see the young llama gathered securely into his father’s warm poncho.
Suddenly Papa uttered a sharp exclamation. His legs twisted under him. Snowslide!
The snow enveloped Papa’s dark figure, and Manco could see him no more. Manco plunged toward the rocky canyon that split the shoulder of the mountain. It would take a long time to descend to the bottom, then climb upward to where the snow had buried Papa.
Manco thought of going for help, but he knew there wasn’t time. Papa needed someone now, and Manco was the only one there.
When the boy reached the snow line at last, his arms and legs were like stones. His hands were bleeding, and his eyes were blurred with stinging perspiration and with his own tears. If only he could find Papa, he would never again fail to perform his tasks.
Searching the mass of snow and debris before him, Manco couldn’t see Papa anywhere! But wait—above the gasps of his own breathing, Manco heard a low moan. Swiftly he climbed higher and a little to the right. He saw a large, rough mound of snow moving slightly. “Papa?”
The boy tore at the snow with his bare hands. First he uncovered the young llama, which hobbled over to join the flock as soon as it was freed. Then Manco’s rapid digging uncovered an arm, then Papa’s shoulders, then his capped head. Túpac’s face was a strange color. His eyes were closed.
“Papa? Can you hear me?”
Túpac’s eyelids fluttered, then closed again. The look of tenseness and pain never left his face.
Manco pushed the snow from around his father’s limp form. He knew that he would not be able to get Papa home—it was too far.
There’s a shelter just over this ridge, he remembered. It’s only made of fallen tree limbs and branches, but it will be warmer there and out of the wind.
As Manco struggled to lift his father to a sitting position, Túpac came to and cried out with pain. But he struggled to his feet, saying, “I think that with your help, Manco, I can make it to the shelter.”
Evening shadows hurried behind them as they made their way over the ridge. A few meters before they reached the shelter, Túpac slumped to the ground, overcome by pain and by his exertion. Manco was forced to drag his father the rest of the way.
Manco laid his father on a hastily made bed of leaves. He took off his own poncho and covered Túpac with it. Then he quickly cleared a space near his father, built a small fire, and set out to get help.
Manco soon found his uncles, who climbed up the mountainside and carried Túpac to his home. The boy’s mother and Cora, his sister, carefully tended to Túpac, cleaning and bandaging his wounds, and giving him soup to eat, and administering medicine. Manco watched anxiously until he saw his father fall into a relaxed sleep. Then the boy went to his own bed, exhausted.
It was late the next morning when he opened his eyes. His father, still in pain but feeling better, spoke his name.
“Yes, Papa?”
“The flock—is it safe?”
“No, Papa. I—I left them on the mountain.”
“You are the man of this house now,” his father told him. “Gather them and care for them. Go. And God be thy friend.”
Manco could not believe his ears. He was “the man of this house now”? But it was his negligence that had caused Papa’s accident. Papa knew why Manco hesitated, yet he had called his son, who had erred, a man. The boy’s eyes stung suddenly. He bent over his father to hide tears of gratitude. “Yes, Papa. Thank you,” he whispered.
Manco stood, feeling somehow taller and older. He would not fail Papa this time. He would care for the herd alone.
Manco put on his poncho, pulled his cap over his ears, and went to the rough-hewn door.
“My son?” Túpac lifted himself slightly.
“Yes, Papa?”
“When you return, I shall teach you to be the finest flute player in all Peru.”

The formal dance hosted by one Southern California stake in 2011 expanded to two stakes in 2012. Both stakes had youth who helped plan and carry out the event.
Evan S. was part of the planning committee and was also given a charge to get other youth excited about the dance. “I did all I could to try and make sure people knew it was going to be a fun event and that fun people would be there to make it the best it could possibly be,” he says.
The event was held on the estate of a stake member and gathered more than 300 youth. They loved the music, the modest dress, and the appropriate dancing. In addition to the dance, other activities included a photo booth, table tennis, and even a ball pit. And this was all provided at no cost to the youth. One nonmember who was invited to the dance exclaimed, “Your Church provides all this?!”
Darby C. loved going to the prom and sums up why most youth enjoy going to these dances. “It is wonderful,” she says. “I don’t have to worry about being uncomfortable about lyrics, dance moves, or inappropriate clothing.”

About 20 years ago I was assigned to go to Montevideo, Uruguay, to tour the mission and dedicate the first chapel built in that city. During the previous year President David O. McKay had broken ground for that chapel, hoping that he could return and dedicate it. Other duties prevented his doing so, and hence I was sent.
After our dedicatory service an Italian sister came up to shake hands. Before doing so she held out her right hand and asked me to look at it. I did but saw nothing unusual about it. Then she called my attention to a scar in the palm of her hand and explained:
“When President McKay was here to break ground for our chapel,” she said, “I had a cancer in the palm of my hand. The doctors could not help me, and the cancer was spreading. I felt impressed by the Holy Spirit that if I could just touch President McKay’s hand, my cancer would be healed.
“Many people went forward to greet the president, and because there were so many, I became discouraged. But my prompting continued. I felt it was the Holy Spirit urging me on. I did meet the president. My right hand was heavily bandaged, so I had to shake hands with my left hand.
“When I returned home I took the bandage off and to my great delight saw that the cancer was already drying up. I now show you this right hand, all healed, and I want you to tell President McKay about it.”

A personal experience illustrates that point. Sister Oaks and I are the parents of six, including four daughters. Our youngest daughter is still in her teens. As parents, we have learned a lot about teenage girls. I remember when one of our teenage daughters announced that she was in love with eight boys. She produced a list of their names. I made silent note of the fact that she had never even dated some of these boys, and one of them she had never even met. Within a few weeks she dropped several names off her list and added others. When I asked her how she could fall in love and out of love with so many boys so quickly, she wisely admitted, “I guess I’m not in love with those boys. I’m just in love with love.” Your parents and grandparents will remember the words of an old song, “Falling in love with love is falling for make believe” (Lorenz Hart, “Falling in Love with Love,” The Boys from Syracuse, n.p.: Chappell & Co., 1938).

A few weeks after that Friday, the presidency of my young adult branch was released. As anyone from a small branch can probably attest, it was hard to think of what would happen without our branch being able to rely on these men and their wives, whom we had grown to love and trust. But I closed my eyes and repeated to myself the words that had struck me that Friday: good things keep on coming. I was comforted and ready for the change.

Shortly after beginning three years of service as a mission president, I was reminded of my personal attitude concerning the world and the people in it. One evening I looked up to see my thirteen-year-old daughter walking up to my desk. She stopped and looked intently at me, with her hands on her hips. She finally said, “Dad, I think I have you figured out.” Now she had my complete attention. Then she said, “You have devoted your life to the beautiful, haven’t you?”
I thought for a few moments and then replied, “Yes, Carole, you do have me figured out. Thank you.”
My lovely wife and our six beautiful daughters had long been aware of my interest in the beauty of buildings, as expressed in my practice as a professional architect, and also of my interest in the beauty of this world, as expressed in my landscape paintings. Carole had now correctly concluded that I had an even greater interest in the creation of beautiful people—the type of radiant beauty that comes from righteous living and acceptance of the gospel of Jesus Christ, as taught by our missionaries.

Eight Varsity Scouts from the Greeley Colorado Stake served as volunteers for two days at the Colorado Special Olympics Winter Games. The group cheerfully performed the many tasks assigned to them by the Olympic Committee. They helped decorate the “Olympic Town” and manned booths for competitions. Several of their group were also assigned as escorts to athletes on the ski slopes. They were to stay with their athlete during practice runs and during races.
They returned home tired but with a new appreciation and understanding of the special people they had been privileged to serve.

During my sophomore year of high school, I became friends with Courtney. Initially I’d known her only by her reputation as “the cool party girl,” but then she was in my math class and we had many mutual friends. I was surprised when she took an instant liking to me and was so willing to become my friend. Because of my standards, I didn’t attend the high school parties she did, and I didn’t fit in with her lifestyle at the time.
But things changed after a few simple conversations. Before I knew it, we were quickly becoming best friends. Courtney began going to parties less and instead began coming over to my house. She would occasionally attend church with my family and me. I was thrilled! I could see that Courtney was thirsty for knowledge about the Church.
I wondered what had prompted her to make these changes in her lifestyle, so I asked her. I will never forget when she told me that she was impressed by my lifestyle and how happy I was all the time. She wanted to be my friend, but she didn’t think I would want to be hers. I found this funny because I used to feel the same way about her.
I believe that as youth in the Church, we should all “stand as witnesses of God at all times” (Mosiah 18:9), because people are watching us. I’m grateful for my opportunity to be an example to Courtney, who was eventually baptized five years after our math class together. I’ve never felt any feeling like I did when I watched Courtney be baptized, and I will never forget the smile on her face as she came out of the waters of baptism.

James loved everything about Christmas—the songs and stories about baby Jesus, the twinkling lights, the bright packages under the tree, and the smell of yummy treats. He also loved the Christmas traditions with his grandparents, Nana and Papa. Every year Nana made steaming mugs of her special hot chocolate and baked dozens of sugar cookies shaped like stars and trees. All seven grandchildren would gather in Nana and Papa’s kitchen to frost and decorate the cookies. Then James and his cousins would play games with Papa. Last year, Papa taught eight-year-old James, the oldest grandson, how to operate the train that circled the Christmas tree.
Christmas would be different this year. Papa had died at the beginning of December, and Nana felt too sad to plan their special Christmas traditions. James felt very sad, too. He missed Papa.
“Christmastime feels wrong without Papa,” James told his mom one snowy afternoon.
Mom thought for a minute before she hugged James. “James, why do we celebrate Christmas?” she asked softly.
“Because that’s when Jesus was born,” he answered quickly.
“That’s right. We celebrate Christmas to remember Jesus Christ’s birth. And we know that Jesus made it possible for us to see Papa again and be together forever as a family. So don’t you think we can think about Papa and Christmas at the same time?” Mom said.
James hadn’t thought about that before. He still missed Papa, but he felt happier remembering that they could be together forever.
“I’m glad I’ll get to see Papa again,” he said.
“Me too,” Mom said. “And I’m going to go visit Nana in a few minutes. You can come with me.”
At Nana’s house, James looked around in surprise. He didn’t see any Christmas decorations—not even a tree.
“Where is your Christmas tree, Nana?” James asked. “And where is the train?”
“I’m not having a tree this year,” Nana said sadly. “It takes too much work to buy one and put the lights on it. I can’t do that all alone. And I don’t know how to run the train. Papa always did that.”
“Oh,” James said softly.
“We need to help Nana,” he told Mom as she tucked him into bed later that night. “She is so sad.”
James crinkled his forehead in concentration as he and Mom thought about what they could do. Soon they had a plan.
The next evening, the whole family met at James’s house. James and his cousins giggled as they piled into cars and drove to a Christmas tree lot. They looked at many different trees. Some were too tall. Others were too fat or too prickly. Some had drooping branches and bare spots. Finally, Uncle Max found a perfect tree. They paid for it, put it in the back of the truck, and drove to Nana’s house. Then James and his cousins huddled together on Nana’s front porch and began singing Christmas carols as Dad unloaded the tree.
Soon the door cracked open and Nana peeked out. “Surprise!” James called. Nana opened the door wide. “What’s this?”
“We got you a Christmas tree,” James bubbled. “And now we want to help you decorate it!” Dad hefted the tree into the house while Uncle Max rummaged through some bins to find a tangled strand of white lights. Uncle Ben positioned the tree in its metal stand, and Mom placed a red cloth under it. Christmas music streamed from the radio as they hung sparkly star-shaped ornaments from the tree’s branches. Then Uncle Ben carried a big brown box up from the basement. Inside, James saw the shiny red train engine and black train tracks. He carefully helped Uncle Ben connect the tracks in a circle around the tree.
When they finished, Nana looked at the tree and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She smiled at James and his cousins.
“Thank you,” she said. “Papa would have loved this.”
“Well, you know, Christmas is the perfect time to think about him,” James said, reaching for Nana’s hand. He nudged her over to the tree, where the little train circled happily. “And one more thing. I need to teach you how to run the train.”
“I wish that each of us will have a fuller and richer appreciation for all that the great gift of the Savior’s birth, life, and death means to us and our eternal happiness. Christmas is a season of hope.”President James E. Faust, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “Speaking Today: First Presidency Christmas Devotional,” Ensign, Feb. 2001, 73.

When I was a baby, I was baptized into the Orthodox Church of Ukraine. Growing up, the fact that I never made the choice to be baptized unsettled me. I started to think that religion didn’t allow me the freedom to choose for myself.
So I eventually stopped believing in God or anything spiritual.
One day, I was talking to my friend who was in Czechia doing a study program affiliated with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She invited me to do the program too. I wasn’t interested originally, but after a while, I decided to check it out.
I liked the school’s overall message of positivity, so I gave in and applied.
But I had no interest in the program’s focus on Jesus Christ.
Or so I thought.
This academy made me live differently than I was used to. First, I learned that I wasn’t allowed to drink coffee on campus!
My freedom was already slipping through my fingers.
Along with that, every morning started with a mandatory devotional. I would mostly sleep through them because I wasn’t interested. I was just there to learn and then live my life the way I wanted to.
But after a while, I noticed the people around me who were taking Jesus Christ’s teachings seriously. In Ukraine, many people only went to church a few times a year, but here, everyone was always talking about Christ. They were kind, good, and positive about life.
I started to wonder what my life would be like if I believed in Him too. Sometimes I even caught myself thinking, “What would Jesus’s perspective be?”
I felt confused. I told one of my friends at the academy about how I was feeling torn. He invited me to try praying about my feelings.
On one foggy morning, I decided to find a quiet place to meditate outside. I don’t know what came over me, but instead of meditating, I gave God the benefit of the doubt. I said, “OK, let’s talk.”
And I said the longest prayer of my life.
I just wanted to know if God and Jesus Christ were real.
As I was praying, the sun pierced through the fog. I felt its warmth on my skin and warmth in my heart. I felt like someone’s hand was on my shoulder, telling me They were right there with me.
The message was clear: They were real. They were aware of me.
I also realized something else.
Looking at those who were living the gospel of Jesus Christ, I didn’t see anybody being forced to do things they didn’t want to do or feeling restricted by their faith. I saw them choosing to live like Jesus Christ because they wanted to.
In the Book of Mormon, the prophet Moroni extends his promise through an invitation, not a command: “If ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:4).
I realized I wanted to choose Him too.
From then on, I took learning about Jesus Christ seriously. I accepted missionary lessons. I studied the Book of Mormon. I prayed every day. I even got baptized! (My choice this time!) This was all so new to me, but I felt my heart changing.
I still have a lot to learn, and I am so imperfect, but I always say to myself, “Let’s just try to be like Christ today. Just keep trying.”
Elder Joaquin E. Costa of the Seventy beautifully taught: “At times, having faith in Jesus Christ may seem like something impossible, almost unattainable. We may think that coming unto Christ requires a strength, power, and perfection we don’t have, and we just can’t find the energy to do it all. But … faith in Jesus Christ is what gives us the energy to begin the journey.”
Jesus Christ can change us if we give Him the chance and keep trying. He doesn’t limit our freedom. Instead, He offers us even more through His Atonement: joy, healing, and hope.
We have the freedom to choose Him every day, and I’m grateful for the miracles my choice to follow Him brings into my life.
The author is from Kyiv, Ukraine.

Forced by mob persecution to leave their homes in Nauvoo, Illinois, many members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints looked to the West to find a new Zion. The next year, 1847, under the direction of President Brigham Young, they migrated to the Great Salt Lake Valley. The first pioneer colony to arrive at the valley numbered one hundred forty-three men, three women, and two children. Among these first settlers was Green Flake, a former slave of a North Carolina planter, who had been converted earlier to the Church.
Born in Anson County, North Carolina, in 1825, Green was inherited by Madison Flake after his father’s death. As was the custom of the time, Green took the surname of his master. After Madison Flake joined the Church, he offered Green his freedom. However, Green chose to remain with Madison, and he moved to Nauvoo with the Flake family. In Nauvoo Green served for a short time as one of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s bodyguards.
Madison asked Green to go with the first wagon train of Saints to help prepare for the subsequent arrival of the Flake family. Life was hard for all of the pioneers. Green proved himself strong and reliable as the small band set up winter quarters in Nebraska; forged a trail along the Platte River to Ft. Laramie, Wyoming; in the spring, and conquered the Rocky Mountains.
President Young became ill with a fever when they arrived at Echo Canyon, which cut through the eastern slopes of the Wasatch Range fifty miles from the Great Salt Lake. He sent Orson Pratt ahead with a company of forty-two men, instructing them to build bridges and roads as they went. Green Flake was included in this group, which pushed on and reached the Great Salt Lake Valley on July 21, 1847. He rode in the first wagon to move through Emigration Canyon into the desert valley, later called by Brother Young a promised land.
Orson Pratt immediately dedicated the land to the Lord and blessed the seed that they had carried with them over a thousand miles. He then ordered the first crops to be planted. Green Flake plowed and sowed his seed before building a log house for the Flake family. He had chosen a site on the Amasa Survey in Cottonwood so that the Flakes could live near the Southern Saints who had come west with the Mississippi Company. It was they who established the first settlement in Utah outside of Salt Lake City.
When Madison Flake arrived a year later, he found a beautiful home ready for his family. At this time Green was only twenty-two years old. Shortly afterward Green married Martha Crosby, and they had two children. After his wife died in 1885, Green went to live near his son and daughter in Gray’s Lake, Idaho. He returned to Salt Lake City in 1897 to attend the Jubilee Pioneer Celebration and to receive a special certificate for being one of the first pioneers to enter the valley. He died six years later in Gray’s Lake at the age of seventy-eight.

Waupee came upon a ring in the prairie that seemed to have been worn by many moving feet, but there was no trail leading to or from the ring. Waupee hid, and soon twelve dancing sisters descended to earth in a basket and began to dance around the ring. Waupee caught one of the sisters and claimed her as his bride. One day they traveled back to the stars, taking with them earthly gifts. There was great rejoicing when Waupee and his family arrived, and each one there chose a gift. Waupee and his wife and son chose a feather from the white hawk, and together they became white hawks and returned to earth.