Gospel Story Finder

You see, when the Latter-day Saint missionaries first came to England in 1837, they began their labors in Preston. At that time the city was in the midst of a grand celebration of Queen Victoria’s reign. As the missionaries alighted from their coach, they saw a banner overhead proclaiming in bold gilt letters “Truth Will Prevail.”
It became a widely-used phrase in the Church and appeared in various publications. One elder, reporting on his mission to Indiana, wrote in a letter published in Nauvoo’s Times and Seasons in 1841: “Although the Lord has chosen the weak things of this world to preach his gospel, truth will prevail, and will prosper.”1
Trusting the Lord, I turned in my mission papers. On my 21st birthday, along with my birthday post, came my call to serve in the England London South Mission. Due to my years of inactivity, I still felt weak and inadequate. Only later would I understand what that early missionary understood: the Lord may choose the weak things of this world to preach His gospel, but truth will prevail and will prosper.
I went in faith to the temple to be endowed. When I came out of the temple, I met two missionaries who had served in my home ward. As we talked, I described my experience out on the moors. One of the elders smiled broadly and explained that on a particular preparation day, he and his companion had hiked up on the moors and at a certain point felt impressed to place some rocks across the hillside spelling out the familiar phrase “Truth Will Prevail.”
Tears streamed down our faces as we realized what had happened. Those familiar with the area know there are miles and miles of trails amongst the moors. Yet I happened to choose the very spot where the missionaries had placed those rocks. I knew there and then that the Lord had answered my prayer in the hills that day.

Carl shivered as he pushed his bike against the wind. I can’t wait to get home and get warm, he thought. And I can’t wait to open Christmas presents!
He had gotten up extra early that morning to deliver newspapers. As he pushed his bike up the steep hill on his way home, he thought about Mom’s homemade Christmas cinnamon rolls. They were going to taste so good. He could almost taste the sweet creamy frosting.
Cream! Carl’s shoulders slumped. He had forgotten about milking the cow and the other chores he needed to do. Even on Christmas.
Carl parked his bike in front of the house. He and his brother liked racing to see who could get their paper routes done first. He didn’t see his brother’s bike, so Carl had won!
The only problem with winning was that now he had to wait for his brother before they could open their presents. Then they’d have to go back outside and do chores. Carl wished he could just stay inside and enjoy Christmas.
I could just get my chores done now, Carl thought. Then I won’t have to come back out in the cold. He hurried to the barn.
As he grabbed a pail and sat down to milk the cow, Carl looked around. All the other chores still needed to be done. Then he had an idea. If he did all the chores himself, he could surprise his family and they could spend the rest of Christmas morning together. It would be the best Christmas present ever!
Carl hurried and milked the cows. Then he cleaned the barn, fed the chickens, and collected the eggs. He smiled as he thought of how surprised his family would be.
Carl went back to the house. He peeked in the door to see if anyone was there. Then he sneaked into the kitchen. He had just finished putting the milk and eggs in the refrigerator when Mom walked in.
“Oh good, you’re home,” Mom said, giving him a hug. “We were beginning to worry about you.”
Mom helped him take off his coat. When Carl’s siblings saw him they shouted, “Carl’s home! Let’s open our presents!” Everyone crowded around the Christmas tree and waited for Dad to hand out gifts. Carl loved watching as everyone opened their treasures.
“All right!” Dad said. “Now it’s time to do the chores. But first, I think we need some juice and cinnamon rolls.”
Dad walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He stopped and stared.
“Well, look at that!” Dad said. “The milk jug is already full, and here are the eggs already gathered! Who could have done that?”
Dad came back into the living room. Carl tried his best to hide his smile.
“Do you know anything about this, Carl?” Dad said with a smile of his own. “It seems our chores are already done.”
“Merry Christmas!” Carl shouted.
Dad put his arm around Carl. “Thank you, son. That was very thoughtful. This might be our best Christmas yet!”
Carl grinned. He already knew this was his best Christmas ever.

About a year later, Heber’s only living son became sick with a hip disease. One night Heber dreamed that the boy’s mother was waiting to take him to heaven. Heber’s brother woke him from the dream.
Brother: Come quickly, Heber. Your son is dying.
Heber: Was my dream real?
When Heber went into his son’s bedroom, he could feel that his wife’s spirit was there.
Heber: I feel such peace in this room that I can watch my son pass away without shedding a tear.
As President of the Church, he told the Saints of the Holy Ghost’s power to comfort us.
Heber: As I saw my little boy die, I experienced a sweet, peaceful, heavenly feeling greater than I had ever felt. The joy of the gospel robs the grave of its sting.

Four years ago I spoke in this setting about couples serving full-time missions. My prayer was that “the Holy Ghost [would] touch hearts, and somewhere a spouse … [would] quietly nudge his or her companion, and a moment of truth [—a moment of decision—would] occur.” One sister later wrote me about that experience. She said, “We were sitting in the comfort of our family room enjoying conference on television. … As you spoke, my heart was touched so deeply. I looked over at my husband, and he looked at me. That moment changed my life forever.”
If you are or will soon be the age of a senior missionary, I come to you this afternoon to witness of the blessings that can change your life forever. Your Heavenly Father needs you. His work, under the direction of our Savior Jesus Christ, needs what you are uniquely prepared to give. Every missionary experience requires faith, sacrifice, and service, and these are always followed by an outpouring of blessings.
As we discuss these blessings, you will naturally consider what I have called the four F’s: fear, family concerns, finding the right mission opportunity, and financial challenges. May I yet add another more important and powerful F—faith. Only through our faith can we heed God’s counsel to “choose ye this day, whom ye will serve”—“to serve the Lord God who made you.” And only through a trial of our faith can we receive the miraculous blessings we seek for ourselves and our families. “For if there be no faith among the children of men God can do no miracle among them; wherefore, he showed not himself until after their faith.”
Allow me to share some of the miraculous blessings from letters and accounts I have received over the past four years. A humble couple from Idaho met fear with faith when the Lord called them to Russia. They wrote the following acceptance letter: “No one would have imagined we would be called to this assignment. We have no idea how we will learn the language or manage to be of service, and although we accept with much trepidation, going completely on faith, we know that the Lord and His prophet know more than we do where we should serve.” Ten months later the Stockholm Sweden Temple welcomed 30 Saints from a small branch in Russia led by this couple from Idaho who had barely begun to learn the Russian language. The scriptures tell us, “God has provided a means that man, through faith, might work mighty miracles.” Thus, God’s work is carried out by His children, “that faith also might increase in the earth, … that the fulness of my gospel might be proclaimed by the weak and the simple unto the ends of the world.”
Another couple faced family concerns with faith. A faithful sister wrote: “The decision to serve a mission was not hard. But my 90-year-old mother was extremely apprehensive about our leaving. She took great comfort when she heard that our families would be blessed as we serve.” A faithful brother expressed similar concerns about leaving his elderly parents, to which his father responded, “Don’t use your mother and me as an excuse not to go on a mission with your wife. You pray about it and follow the guidance of the Spirit.”
To an earlier generation of missionaries called to leave their families, the Lord offered this reassurance: “And if they will do this in all lowliness of heart, … I, the Lord, give unto them a promise that I will provide for their families.”
Certainly family concerns are real and should not be considered lightly. But we cannot meet our family challenges without the blessings of the Lord; and when we sacrifice to serve as full-time missionary couples, those blessings will flow. For example, one couple worried about leaving their youngest daughter, who was no longer active in the Church. Her faithful father wrote: “We prayed for her continually and fasted regularly. Then, during general conference, the Spirit whispered to me, ‘If you will serve, you will not have to worry about your daughter anymore.’ So we met with our bishop. The week after we received our call, she and her boyfriend announced they were engaged. Before we left for Africa, we had a wedding in our home. [Then we gathered our family together and] held a family council. … I bore testimony of the Lord and Joseph Smith … and told them I would like to give each of them a father’s blessing. I started with the oldest son and then his wife and proceeded to the youngest … [including our new son-in-law].”
As we consider couple missionary service, it is appropriate to involve our families in the same way. In family council meetings, we can give our children the opportunity to express their support, offer special assistance we may need, and receive priesthood blessings to sustain them in our absence. Where appropriate, we may be able to receive priesthood blessings from them as well. As the faithful father in this story blessed his family members, his son-in-law felt the influence of the Holy Ghost. The father wrote: “By the end of our first year [the] heart [of our son-in-law] began to soften toward the Church. Just before we returned home from our mission, he and our daughter came to visit us. In his suitcase was the first set of Sunday clothes he had ever owned. They came to church with us, and after we returned home he was baptized. A year later they were sealed in the temple.”
Though the details of this story may be unique, the principle is true for all who say to the Lord, “I’ll go where you want me to go.” I testify that as we put our trust in the Lord, He will find the right missionary opportunity for us. As He said, “If any man serve me, him will my Father honour.”
In considering missionary opportunities, many couples throughout the world have an abundant desire to serve but lack abundant means. If this is your situation, remember that the right mission call may not be to a far-off country with a strange-sounding name. The right call for you may be within your stake or area. “Your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.” Counsel with your extended family and your bishop or branch president. As the Lord’s servants understand your temporal situation, you will be able to receive the eternal blessings of full-time missionary service.
If you cannot serve because of serious extenuating circumstances, would you consider making a financial contribution to help those who can? The reasonable sacrifice of your means will not only bless other missionaries and those they serve; it will bless you and your family as well.
Now, to those who were not able to serve a mission in their youth, may I speak directly to you. Perhaps over the years you have been burdened by feelings of regret or felt less than adequate because you did not have a missionary opportunity to serve and grow when you were younger. My advice to you: look forward, not back. Begin preparing for your mission as a senior missionary couple today! Save a little money each month. Study the scriptures. Accept Church callings. Pray to feel the Lord’s love for others and receive His love and confidence in you. You can one day claim all the blessings of missionary service!
And what marvelous blessings they are! After 51 years of marriage, I was asked, “What part of life would you want to live over again?” I did not hesitate to reply, “When my wife and I served together in the great missionary work of the Lord.” The sentiments of another missionary couple echo those of my wife and myself: “Our decision to go on a mission brought new vigor, new emotions, new friends, new places, new challenges. It brought us closer together as husband and wife; we had a common goal and a real partnership. And best of all, it brought new spiritual growth instead of spiritual retirement.” Brothers and sisters, let us not go into spiritual retirement.
Now, may I extend a challenge to bishops and branch presidents throughout the world? Over the next six months, would it be possible for each of you to consider recommending one or more missionary couples beyond those presently planning to serve? Your greatest resource in meeting this challenge will be those senior members of your ward who have already served missions. In my own ward an inspired bishop called a special meeting of prospective and returned missionary couples. As we bore our testimonies of sacrifice and service, the Spirit witnessed to us all that a call to serve is indeed a call to “know the richness of [the Lord’s] blessing[s].”

As a mother of an autistic four-year-old girl, I have struggled to find answers to how I should help my daughter along the covenant path. Normally simple things like sitting still, observing reverence, or paying attention to the speakers are very hard for her to do. Without these in place, I have struggled to teach her many of the basic rules that lay a foundation to knowing and loving the Savior and the Lord’s purpose for us in this life.
I often wondered how I was to obey the Lord’s commandments to teach our children the gospel. So many of my favorite scriptures in relation to teaching the gospel sometimes became a sad reminder of what I am unable to do.
As time went by, I blamed myself and asked where I went wrong, and if Heavenly Father was unhappy with me.
Because of my daughter’s inability to observe reverence or to stay in a classroom for long, church attendance became a challenge for me. In the beginning, I thought that the days of sacrament meeting attendance were gone for me. I knew I couldn’t leave my child behind as my attendance was not complete without her; I needed her at my side.
I have kept pushing on, each week attending as much of the sacrament meeting as possible. I have prayed on my way to church that I would at least be able to partake of the sacrament before my daughter became too much of a distraction.
I’m grateful for the bishop’s encouragement and belief in my daughter’s ability to be able to settle down in a sacrament meeting. He didn’t judge me for not being able to get my daughter to be reverent all the time. I will never forget the day he assigned me to give a talk on the responsibility of a mother. I felt it was a role I had fallen very short on, but my bishop didn’t. On Mother’s Day, the bishop, knowing that I often had to leave church early, ran after me to ensure that he personally handed me my Mother’s Day card and gift. That deeply touched my heart.
I have come to feel the confirmation from the Holy Ghost that my daughter too, is a unique and loved spiritual daughter of God. I have learnt so much from her uniqueness. I have learnt to put all my trust in God, I have been humbled by her innocence and her zeal to keep learning and trying to do the simple things so many take for granted. She has taught me to be grateful for many small and simple things and to exercise faith in God and most importantly to have an eternal perspective. In more ways than one, she is such a big example of God’s eternal plan of salvation.
I am grateful for the boundless support and positive influence her father has been in her life, helping her walk along this path of the plan of salvation.
I have a testimony that Jesus Christ is the strength of parents, and that He endured all things, so that He may know how to comfort us. My prayer is that we all learn to walk the sometimes-lonely path back to our Heavenly Father while holding on to the iron rod amidst the mocking and laughter from the great and spacious building.

He came into our lives one cold March morning by meowing at the kitchen door. When Mom opened it, the huge black cat—wet, scrawny, and bedraggled—held his swollen, bloody left front paw in the air.

“Why you poor thing,” Mom said, “where did you come from?” She picked him up and got a towel from the bathroom and dried him off. As she was doing this, we kids came downstairs for breakfast. All activity stopped as everyone took turns petting the cat, who by this time was purring like a muffled motorboat.

“You’re as black as midnight,” Mom said, and so he was dubbed “Midnight.” Mom removed a large sliver of glass from the pad of his swollen paw, bathed it in warm water and Epsom salts, then bandaged it. Meanwhile we kids put some old clothes in a cardboard box to make a bed for Midnight.

Mom placed the box behind the old, wood-burning kitchen stove and told Midnight that he could sleep there till his paw got better. After that, she advised him, he would have to make his home in the barn, where there were grain-eating mice to catch. After consuming a saucer of milk to which Mom had added a few drops of cod-liver oil, he lay in his bed and slept till evening. Mom fed him again, and he went back to sleep.

The next morning he crawled out of the box, gingerly testing his paw on the floor. Mom fed him some more milk and cod-liver oil, then a small piece of meat, which he ate with relish. After he ate, Mom bathed his paw again and put a clean bandage on it. By the next day Midnight was favoring his paw only a little bit, and we took him to the barn.

A week later Midnight was making forages into the woods each day. One morning Mom heard him meowing on the back porch. Upon investigating, she found him there with a dead field mouse at his feet. He looked up at her as if to say, “Here’s a present.” Mom petted him and told him that he was a good cat and a good mouser. When he saw that Mom didn’t want the mouse, he took it in his mouth and headed for the barn.

Two or three times a week after that he brought field mice, ground squirrels, small snakes, butterflies, and young rabbits for Mom to inspect. Each time, he meowed to let Mom know that he was there, then looked up at her to see if she took what he brought.

One day Midnight brought a very young woodchuck. He was holding it in his mouth the way a mother cat carries her kittens. Mom took it from him and saw that it wasn’t harmed in any way. She couldn’t tell exactly how old it was, but she knew that it was still nursing. Always softhearted, she took the baby woodchuck in and made it a bed in a box. When she gave the baby creature a doll’s bottle filled with warm milk mixed with a drop of honey, it took to it like a duck takes to water. So that’s how Woody joined our family.

After that, Midnight stopped presenting his offerings at the kitchen door. But he came each day to see how Woody was getting along. He would look into the box and touch the baby with his paw, then look up at Mom.

Woody grew like a weed and was soon following Mom around as if she were his mother—indeed, she was the only mother that he knew. He became such a nuisance that Mom decided that he was big enough to live in the backyard. He didn’t seem to mind the change at all, and he scampered all over, examining everything in sight. At night he curled up with his small tail over his nose in an old easy chair on the back porch. One day Mom called for us to come and look—Midnight and Woody were playing together like a couple of young kittens. Woody chased Midnight for a while, then Midnight chased Woody. They even wrestled with each other. These playful antics went on for an hour or two every day till they wore themselves out. They shared the same water dish, and they would lie down side by side in the warm sun and sleep.

When Woody was about three months old, he started digging himself a hole under the stone fence that surrounded the yard. He worked on it every day till he got it to his liking. While Woody was busy digging his den, he wouldn’t play with Midnight, no matter what enticements he offered. So Midnight just lay on the grass and watched his playmate and thought his own thoughts. When Woody finished his hole, he went back to playing with his friend each day.

Woody had very good manners when following any of us into the vegetable garden. He wouldn’t touch a thing unless we offered it to him. Then he would sit on his haunches, take the offered vegetable, and eat it with gusto.

As fall came and the days became cooler, Woody seemed to eat all the time. Pop said that he was storing fat for the winter. Woody also pulled up grass, laid it in the sun to dry, then took it into his den. Pop said that Woody would use the grass to make a warm bed for the winter and to store as food.

When the weather broke and we had warm days during the winter, Woody came out of his hole and sunned himself. We took carrots, apples, and chunks of cabbage to him on these days. Other days we went to the edge of his hole and left food, which would be gone the next time we looked.

Spring came early that year. By the middle of March, all the snow was gone and things started greening up. Woody came out on a warm day and walked around the yard, inspecting everything. He and Midnight resumed their playing with each other. One morning in early June we heard a commotion in the backyard and howls of pain and growling. A stray dog had jumped the stone wall and was attacking Woody. Before any of us could come to his aid, a huge black streak cut across the yard—Midnight to the rescue! He leaped onto the dog’s back and sank his teeth into its neck and clawed at his head with his long, sharp claws. The dog let go of Woody in order to rid himself of his own attacker. But the harder he tried to shake Midnight off, the tighter Midnight held on. Finally the dog took off running, with Midnight’s claws still gripping his back. We watched, spellbound, as Midnight rode him like a steeplechaser over the stone wall, down the road, and out of sight around a turn in the road.

When we turned our attention to Woody, he had crawled to the edge of his hole, where he lay whimpering with numerous bites all over his body. As she had with Midnight, Mom washed and dried his wounds and bandaged them. When she finished, he looked like a mummy. Then, knowing some herbal lore, she made some strong catnip tea, cooled it, and forced a half cup of it down Woody’s throat by using an eye-dropper and rubbing his throat till he swallowed it. As soon as Woody went to sleep, Mom laid him in a bed that we kids made from a box and some old clothes.

By this time Midnight was meowing at the door. Mom let him in, and he headed straight for Woody’s bed and looked down at him. Then he looked up at Mom as if to ask, “Will he be all right?” We all petted Midnight and told him how proud we were of him for what he had done. Then Mom did something that I had never seen her do before. She got a big piece of steak and gave it to Midnight. After eating his reward, he lay down beside Woody’s bed. Mom didn’t say anything about him staying in the house that night.

Whenever Woody stirred in his sleep, Midnight scrambled to his feet to look at him. Then he’d gently stroke Woody’s head with his paw. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I would never have believed it. I thought to myself that if two different species of animals can show love and affection like Midnight and Woody did, then why can’t people do the same?

After many days of tender nursing from Mom, Woody was up and about again. And in a month or two, new fur covered his many scars. But he had a limp in his right rear leg, and he was never really the same after the attack. He and Midnight played again in the yard, but Midnight saw that Woody wasn’t his old self, and he took it easy in their play.

As summer was drawing to a close, we noticed that Woody was less playful than he used to be, and he spent a lot of his time sleeping beside his hole. One morning in late fall, we found him lying on the cushion of the easy chair instead of by his den. He was dead.

When Midnight came from the barn for his daily visit, he looked at Woody and sniffed him and then walked to Woody’s den and back again. Then he walked back to the barn to be alone in his grief. Not long after that we discovered that Midnight was missing. Although we searched high and low, we never found any trace of him. Maybe it was too painful for him to stay around after his friend had died. Everyone in our family still cherishes the memory of the two animal friends who brought so much love into our lives.

My friend Melinda and I were trying to decide who to share a batch of freshly baked cookies with. After a minute of thinking, we both looked at each other and said, “Sister Cobabe!” She had been our Mia Maid adviser, and I often baby-sat her two young children. She was one of our favorite people.
We wrapped the cookies up and wrote a short note. It read: “We think you are a wonderful person. Thanks for all you have done. We hope you have a wonderful day. Love, Wendi and Melinda.”
We left the cookies on the doorstep, rang the doorbell, and ran, leaving our surprise on the Cobabes’ porch.
In Young Women class the next week, Sister Cobabe approached me and handed me a card. I walked over to Melinda, and we read the card together. It said:
“I wanted to thank you both for the cookies. They were so good! I also wanted you both to know that I think the love you show to me and others is wonderful. I really needed a lift the day you brought the card and the cookies over. The next day, I had a death in my family. It was such a comfort knowing someone was thinking of me. Always remember you deserve only the best in life. Love you both, Sister Cobabe.”
I felt a warm feeling blanket my heart. A large smile crept onto my face. We had really helped her.
Melinda and I recalled that her name had seemed to occur to both of us out of nowhere. Now we realized that we had received a prompting to give the cookies to her.
My heart swelled as I read the note again. Even though it was only a small gesture of kindness, Sister Cobabe had really needed it. The Lord had used me to help someone else.

Our daughter, Emily, describes the darkness of an unanswered request for guidance as being in the middle of a room where there is no glimmer of light. She knows there is a light switch, but its whereabouts are a mystery. She is tempted to stay safely rooted where she is, but choosing safety means never finding the light. So she moves tentatively forward feeling carefully for each step determined to find a wall, because light switches are usually on walls.

I watched Emily apply this metaphor when she neared college graduation; interestingly as she felt her way in the dark, she seemed to develop an internal flashlight whose beam was just bright enough to illuminate her next step. She learned to trust, not just in Heavenly Father, but in her own tuition. This type of strength could not occur if Heavenly Father had laid out her steps in bright LED lights.

I had a serious case of the “I feel worthless” syndrome. I lacked self-esteem and refused to care for or about myself.
My parents tried to encourage me, but any suggestion could cause an eruption. Talking to me was like walking on eggs. “Just leave me alone!” I would exclaim, louder and more angrily than I had intended. I knew my parents spent many sleepless nights worrying about their daughter.
One Sunday evening, my mother insisted that I go to a stake fireside with her and my father. “I don’t want to go to that stupid fireside!” I said. I was always looking for an argument, for any way to blame others for my misery.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Paige. Of course you’ll go,” my mom answered.
When we walked into the chapel, I noticed that some of my friends were already sitting—not in the pews, but on the stand. Trying to go unnoticed, I sat down.
A youth leader tapped me on the shoulder, “Paige, why don’t you sing with us?”
“I’m sorry, Sister Daines, but I haven’t been to any of the practices. I don’t even know the name of the song.”
“Don’t worry,” she said as she helped me up from my seat. “You’ll be fine.”
Before I knew it, the stake president was introducing “a vocal number by the great youth of the stake.” Panic raced through my heart.
The pianist touched the keys, and the opening bars of the song echoed throughout the chapel. Tears slowly slid down my cheeks as I began to sing. I knew the words to this song. I had all along.
“I am a child of God,” I sang. As the words came from my lips, I looked at my parents, smiling from the front row. Their eyes said, “We love you.”
Suddenly I knew I was not alone. From that moment, I have known that truly I am a child of God and that he has sent me to parents kind and dear.
The words of the song had come out of my mouth many times. Now they had finally entered my heart.

The year we were baptized a friend bought a building lot for his family and ours by loaning us part of the money. We began to dream of having our own house. Eventually the Spirit prompted us, and we started calculating the cost of labor and materials. We felt that we would somehow manage to build a house where we could raise our children in the gospel, do missionary work, and receive visits from members.
After some time I got better acquainted with Brother Joel, a recently baptized member of our ward. His faith was amazing. Once when we were doing a service project, Brother Joel said to me, “José Luis, we can build your house.” I was on the verge of tears, but I contained myself until I told my wife. It was the answer to our prayers.
A few days later the friend who had purchased the land for his family and ours told me I could have the entire plot and pay for it later. Still I did not have the kind of job that would allow me to buy building materials, but I knew the Lord would provide a way. Several weeks later I was invited to work for a large company. Thus, our goal to begin building a house soon became a reality.
What a labor of love was Brother Joel’s. He did more than build a house for my family. He was ready to help us in any way. We worked only on Saturdays. It took 10 months, and it did not interfere with our Church work. Other Church members also helped us. My father came to help several times, which allowed him to get to know members of the Church better. He especially got to know Brother Joel, who had become our home teacher.
One Saturday my father praised Brother Joel for the way he worked.
I said, “Dad, do you know how much I have paid for his services?”
He said, “No.”
“I haven’t paid him a cent,” I said. “He has done this service because he loves my family. He is a good man.”
I realized my father was choked up, and he didn’t say anything. I felt he was probably remembering how he had treated the bishop and the missionaries and was embarrassed. He saw that the members of the Church had always treated us well.
On the day we finished the house, 16 men, most of them members of the Church, were there. My relatives and friends who were not members certainly learned a lot that day.

I began investigating the Church as a teenager, but I stopped attending the Sunday meetings because I felt excluded by many of the youth. Some time later, one of those youth invited me to a Church activity. I accepted and liked the activities because they were things I enjoy doing: acting, playing basketball, and running.
As I continued to attend activities, I got to know the youth and realized that many of them went to my school. With time I was able to develop friendships with young men and young women who had the same standards that I live by. I am grateful that someone invited me to a Church activity, and I am grateful that I accepted.

Ilnara Peixoto Marinho of Fortaleza, Brazil, had been sealed to her family in the temple. But for a long time the family had not been as active in church as they once were. Then one Sunday morning, Ilnara’s Young Women president showed up at her home, along with Sister Beck, who was in town and wanted to visit some young women. When Sister Beck asked Ilnara about her Personal Progress, Ilnara had to admit she had never worked on it at all. Then Sister Beck gave her a challenge. If she would find her book, finish one of the short experiences, and bring it to the fireside that night, Sister Beck would sign it off for her.

That day, Ilnara not only started working on Personal Progress; she also started helping turn her family’s life around. She began attending church. Then she and her sister began going with their mother. When Ilnara’s dad finally joined them, he was called to be in the bishopric. The whole family returned to the temple together. And it all started with Personal Progress.

“I’m bored,” Danny said as Mom put a batch of cinnamon rolls into the oven. “What are we going to do now?”
Before Mom could answer, Elizabeth asked, “Mom, when will Christmas be here? I want to open my presents.”
Mom sighed as she shut the oven door and set the timer. “There’s a lot we can do, Danny. And Elizabeth, there’s much, much more to Christmas than opening presents.” Mom sat down. “Let’s see—how about a game?”
The children nodded their heads enthusiastically.
“Elizabeth, please bring the Baby Jesus from the Nativity set in the family room.”
Elizabeth ran into the family room and quickly returned with the Baby Jesus.
“Now, Danny, close your eyes while Elizabeth hides the Baby Jesus. She’ll tell you when you can open them. Then you will look for Him. If you’re far away, she’ll say you’re cold or colder. But if you’re getting closer to the hiding place, she’ll say you’re warm or warmer. Do you understand?”
When Danny nodded, Mom said, “All right, close your eyes.”
Danny covered his eyes with his hands. Elizabeth quickly put the Baby Jesus on the piano. She looked at Mom and silently mouthed, “Is that OK?”
Mom smiled and nodded.
Elizabeth moved next to Mom. “You can open your eyes now, Danny.”
Danny uncovered his eyes and took several steps toward the couch.
“You’re cold,” Elizabeth said.
“Colder,” Danny heard as he looked under the table. “Colder. Oh, Danny, you’re as cold as you can get over there by the fireplace!” declared Elizabeth.
Danny slumped his shoulders in frustration and said, “I don’t like this game.”
“Don’t give up,” urged Mom. “Now that you know where the Baby Jesus isn’t, you should have a better idea about where He is.”
Danny thought for a minute, then turned around.
Elizabeth cried out, “Hooray! You’re getting warmer.”
Then, instead of looking down, Danny looked up at the piano. He smiled and stood tall as he walked toward the piano.
“Warm, warmer, warmest!” cheered Elizabeth as Danny reached out his hand and picked up the Baby Jesus.
“Danny wins the game!” Mom announced.
Danny had a great big grin on his face, and so did Elizabeth. Mom gathered them both in her arms and explained, “You see, the real purpose of Christmas is like our little game. It’s to try to get closer to Jesus. When we do, we feel warm. If you get that good, warm feeling, the Spirit is telling you you’re doing the kinds of things that make Jesus happy.”
Bzzzz!
“The cinnamon rolls are done,” shouted Elizabeth and Danny.
“Why don’t you two put on your coats while I frost the rolls? Then you can deliver some to Mrs. Simms while they’re still hot,” Mom said.
After delivering the rolls, Elizabeth and Danny rushed into the house. “Mom! Mom! Mrs. Simms was so happy to get the rolls she had tears in her eyes!” reported Danny.
“I think Jesus liked us giving her the rolls, because I feel warm inside,” said Elizabeth. “And if you’re warm, you’re getting closer.”

My sister has Down syndrome. I try to help her and love her. One thing that helps me spend even more quality time with her is reading the New Era with her. We have lots of fun reading the articles, and she points out her favorite pictures. She sees things in them that I had never seen before. I love my sister, and I love the New Era. Thank you for the time and effort that is put into every wonderful issue.Kalia Robinson, Aurora Ward, Springfield Missouri Stake

Late in 1928 the family moved to Cardston, where Eldon again worked as school principal. To supplement their meager depression income, he sold insurance and custom-made suits, milked cows, raised chickens and a vegetable garden, and served on the town council. He also served in the Church as Scoutmaster, bishop’s counselor, and bishop of the Cardston First Ward.
While serving there as a second counselor he became a hero among the local youth with a piece of innovative leadership. It seems that few of the deacons were attending priesthood meeting. Concerned, Eldon went to each of them and found that they had only overalls to wear and were ashamed to come to meetings. He told them that if they would come to their priesthood meetings, he would attend in overalls too. They agreed, and deacons quorum attendance rose to almost 100 percent.

In 1847 covered wagons carrying pioneers began rolling into the Salt Lake Valley. But thousands more people who wanted to come to the valley couldn’t afford wagons or animals to pull them.
Then President Brigham Young had an idea.
The Saints can travel by handcart! They are much less expensive than wagons, and people could pull the carts themselves!
In 1856, five groups of pioneers left Iowa pulling handcarts. Three companies arrived safely in the Salt Lake Valley. But two of the handcart companies left too late in the year and had trouble on the trail.
One of the groups that had trouble was the Martin handcart company.
We’re almost out of food, and we weren’t prepared for this freezing weather!
People are dying!
President Young heard about the struggling pioneers, so he sent a rescue team to find them.
The rescuers found the pioneers and helped them move to a nearby cove for shelter. To get there, they had to cross the icy Sweetwater River. The rescuers carried many of the pioneers across. That night a blizzard hit. The pioneers’ tents were blown down, and more people died.
Hold on! We’re almost to the cove!
After five days the handcart pioneers left Martin’s Cove. Eventually they met more rescue wagons. On November 30 they finally made it to the Salt Lake Valley.
Hurrah! We’ve reached Zion at last!

Mother knew more about Joey than anyone else in the world except me. Once when I was five years old, she and I were lying on her bed, and after she’d read me half a dozen nap-time stories I decided to tell her I had a friend named Joey. Mother thought that was just wonderful and wanted to know all about him.

I told her how one day I’d gone exploring in the hills above our house. Tom and Scott hadn’t come because they were playing kick soccer with a bunch of kids in our backyard. At first I was going to play, but when they chose up sides I was the last one to be chosen, and then there was a fight to see who had to take me on their team. So I said I didn’t want to play, but I really did, but I’m glad I didn’t. Because that was the day I met Joey. He was just my age, but smarter. Almost every day after that we’d play in the hills hunting lizards or digging in the sand. Sometimes though I’d meet him other places.

Mother was amazed at the things we’d do, so every day before my nap I’d wait until her voice sounded sleepier and sleepier while she was reading me stories, and then I’d say, “Now I’ll tell you about Joey and me.” Once in a while Mother would get up and write something down. She wrote down the lion hunt, and the time we were lost at sea, and our exploration of the new planet.

Joey was a joke to Tom and Scott, but Mother thought Joey was magnificent—that was her very word. And she said some day she would write a book about him if I didn’t. Mother was always thinking about writing, but she never got around to it much.

“You are a remarkable boy,” my mom would say to me. I wasn’t sure just what she meant by that, but it made me feel strong and warm both together. And when I finally wrote my first story I signed it, “Remarkable Rulon.”

I remember a time when Sister Sheri Dew, then a counselor in the general Relief Society presidency, came to our region to train stake Relief Society presidencies. We were so excited to meet her. The stake in charge had beautiful flowers and table arrangements in the room. Sister Dew greeted us and commented on her beautiful surroundings. She noted how lovely the flowers were and thanked the sisters who attended to all of the decorations. Then she picked up the flower arrangement, put it off to the side, and said, “Now, let’s get to work.”

She continued to teach about the importance of having the Spirit and realizing our callings. I learned some valuable lessons that day. It wasn’t so much what she said as what I saw in myself, and I changed my concept of how I taught. I challenged myself to never again teach without simplicity.

Many times we don’t comprehend the meaning of the ordinances of the temple in their fulness until after we have known affliction or passed through experiences that could have been extremely sad without the knowledge of the plan of salvation.
When my wife and I had only been married a year and a half, she was ready to deliver our first baby. We had decided that she would have the baby in the Chihuahua colonies, where she had been born. At that time I was working in Mexico City, and we decided that she would be there a month ahead of the delivery date. I was planning to join her later.
The delivery date arrived. I was at work when I received a call from my father-in-law. The news was good: “Octaviano, your wife has given birth, and you now have a little daughter who is beautiful.” So, in my happiness, I began to announce this to my friends and partners at work, who in turn asked me for chocolates to celebrate the birth of my little one.
The next day I began to give out chocolates throughout the four floors of our office building. When I reached the second floor, I received another call from my father-in-law. This time the news was different: “Octaviano, your wife is fine, but your daughter has passed away. The funeral will be today, and you don’t have time to come. What are you going to do?” I asked to speak with Rosa, my wife, and then asked her if she was OK. She replied that she was fine, depending on how I was feeling. Then we talked about the plan of salvation, remembering this scripture:
“And I also beheld that all children who die before they arrive at the years of accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom of heaven” (D&C 137:10).
I asked her, “Do you believe that?” And she said, “Yes, I do.” Then I replied, “We should be happy then. I love you. And if you are OK with that, I’ll take my vacation in two weeks, spend some time with you, and return back together to Mexico.”
We knew that one day we would be reunited with our daughter because we were sealed by the power of the priesthood in the temple. We ended the telephone call, and I resumed giving out the chocolates in my office building.
Seeing me do this, one of my co-workers was surprised and asked me how I could do this after such terrible news. I answered, “If you have three hours, I can explain to you why I am not feeling too sad and about my knowledge of what happens after death.” He didn’t have three hours at that moment but did later. We ended up talking for four hours. He accepted the gospel and, together with his mother and brother, was baptized into the Church after receiving the discussions.
I know that thanks to the power of godliness manifested in the ordinances of the temple, I will now be able to know my daughter. I will embrace her, and we will be with her for eternity, just as we are now with our three surviving children.

Why me? Why now? I had just gotten back from competing in a major horse show held in California and was at the height of my hunter-jumper equestrian riding abilities. I was busy with school, piano lessons, and Beehives. I was doing everything I had been taught to do, and I thought that my life was about as perfect as life can ever get. Then it changed.
I was now in a hospital bed, too sick to even open my eyes. I had been diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. My illness came just four years after my mom died from a similar cancer. I was on heavy chemotherapy to get rid of the cancer, and the doctors were saying that I would have to undergo chemotherapy for two and a half years to make sure that all the cancer was gone. I couldn’t understand why me and why now.
I soon learned that being diagnosed with cancer was not the only challenge I would face. One of the drugs used to treat leukemia is a steroid given at extremely high doses. It is very effective at killing the leukemia cells, but there is a small risk that it can result in avascular necrosis (a condition in which bones die near the joints), particularly in teenage girls. My doctors thought that, at 12 years old, I was too young for that to happen. However, within one month of starting chemotherapy, the steroids ended up destroying most of my major joints and parts of my spine. I was living in constant pain. Four months after I was diagnosed with leukemia, I had my first hip surgery to begin trying to repair the damage done by the steroids and to lessen the pain. The surgery did not go as well as I had hoped, and my orthopedic surgeon told me that I would probably never ride a horse again. All of a sudden, the future I had planned was gone.
I was a good student, and I really enjoyed school. Now I couldn’t go to school or even out in public because the chemotherapy had destroyed my immune system. Instead, I stayed home with my stepmother. At this point I thought things were pretty bad, but they got worse.
Six months after my hip surgery, I had to have another hip surgery because the first one hadn’t worked. I was in a wheelchair because it hurt too much to walk. I was absolutely sure that I wasn’t going to ride horses again, and now I was worried if I would even be able to walk again. Living life sick, in constant pain, and confined to a wheelchair didn’t sound like a lot of fun to me.
I was praying to my Heavenly Father, and I know many other people were praying for me also. Through all of my trials, I prayed that I would be healed, that my joints would recover, and that I wouldn’t have to go through the rest of chemotherapy. I felt that my prayers weren’t being answered because I still had to go to Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City every week for more chemotherapy. I still hurt. And I was still stuck in a wheelchair. At one point, I started to think that my parents were crazy for believing in a God who wouldn’t even listen to a poor little sick girl.
Years before, I had gone through a similar trial of my faith when I prayed for my mom to get better. She was on oxygen all the time and was too weak to even walk around the house. I prayed and hoped and prayed some more that she would miraculously be healed. However, she wasn’t. After she died, I learned that we can pray for what we want all that we want to, but we need to pray for the right things—praying that the Lord’s will be done—to have our prayers answered.
Remembering this lesson, I changed my prayers from “Please heal me” to “Heavenly Father, I would really like to be done with these trials, but I will accept Thy will.” As soon as I changed my prayers, I found that I was able to handle the chemotherapy more easily, and I had a better attitude. That was just the beginning of the blessings and the answers to my prayers and questions.
My dad and grandfather gave me many priesthood blessings. Whenever I had to go in for surgery, I would ask for a blessing. The blessings helped me and my family feel calm about the procedure. One time I had a high fever, and we had to go to the hospital. I received a blessing from my dad and a neighbor before we left. By the time we pulled up at the emergency room door, my fever was gone, and I didn’t have to stay the night in the hospital. I know that priesthood power is a gift from a loving Heavenly Father.
One moment that will always stand out in my mind was the day I came home from the hospital after I was diagnosed with leukemia. The young women and Relief Society sisters had moved my stuff from the basement into a room on the main floor so I would be closer to my parents and wouldn’t have to use the stairs. They had cleaned and decorated the room to make a great place for me to live while I was sick. My family was the recipient of many other service projects. In the beginning, it was hard for me to accept service. When people would do service for me, it would make me feel like I couldn’t do anything for myself. However, I soon learned that it was OK to ask for help. When I started feeling better, I began looking for opportunities to serve other people more. Now I try to serve as much as I can. I get a good feeling when I serve other people. I have come to realize that by letting other people serve me, I allow them the same good feelings.
I have learned to think more about the future and my choices because I was so close to death. At school, I heard girls complaining about how they were having a “bad hair day.” As I was sitting there in my hot pink wheelchair with a wig on my head, I would think, “Well at least you have hair!” Girls would also complain about their feet hurting from walking around in high heels. I would think to myself, “At least you can walk.” Now I try to focus more on the big picture instead of the small things I used to worry about.
Over the past few years I have learned many other things through the blessings of having leukemia and the complications from chemotherapy. I have become closer to my Heavenly Father. My testimony has grown. And I have learned what is truly important. I have learned to appreciate all of the small things that people do for me. I am now in remission, in less pain, and gradually getting back some of the use of my joints. As I continue to heal, the blessings and learning experiences keep coming.
So why me? Why now? I don’t ask those questions anymore because I grew spiritually during my trials. I have discovered who I really am because the Lord loved me enough to let me experience adversity and the blessings that can come with it.
Note: Elizabeth is in remission and recently passed her third anniversary of being off chemotherapy. Her joints are healing, and she is no longer in a wheelchair. While there is still a risk for a relapse, Elizabeth doesn’t think about it. Instead, as a freshman in college, she is focused on studying for tests and practicing the oboe and English horn.