Gospel Story Finder

When President Russell M. Nelson spoke about using the correct name of the Church, his message was very clear to me: “It is the command of the Lord. … To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan” (“The Correct Name of the Church,” Oct. 2018 general conference [Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 87, 88]).
Committed to using the Church’s full name, I waited for the next opportunity to claim my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sure enough, that opportunity came. “You Mormons are such kind people,” someone told me.
“Well, thank you,” I answered. “As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe we’re all brothers and sisters.” Then the conversation continued with him and everyone else talking about the kindness of “Mormons.”
Although I had done my part in saying the full name of the Church, my friends and associates still viewed me as part of the “Mormon Church” and not necessarily as a follower of Christ, let alone as a member of Christ’s restored Church.
Over the next several interactions about my faith, I found it awkward to say the full name of the Church multiple times in the same conversation. Everyone I spoke to seemed to give me odd expressions. And they continued to use the term “Mormons.”
I wanted to make my interactions feel more natural. But this turned out to be more difficult than I expected, particularly with individuals I didn’t want to offend. I didn’t want to be embarrassed or lazy about living my faith, but I also didn’t want to come across as harsh, since many of these people had previously called me “Mormon,” with me accepting it. I also heard many members of the Church still calling members of the Church “Mormons.”
I found myself asking whether using the full name of the Church was really that important in the grand scheme of things. The “Mormon” brand, after all, is quite positive in the minds of many people—being a “Mormon” had often been an asset to me. But in revisiting President Nelson’s talk, I was impressed that this really is that important, even if it did cause some awkwardness in conversation. So I recommitted myself.
One day I was visiting a friend at a church of another faith. Someone came up to me and with a bright smile asked if I was a Mormon. “Yes, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I said.
He started asking me several questions, each beginning with: “Does the Mormon Church believe … ?”
And each time, I began my answer with the phrase: “In the restored Church of Jesus Christ, we believe …”
This banter went back and forth several times. When he noticed that I wasn’t accepting the title “Mormon,” he asked me point-blank, “Are you not Mormon?”
So I asked him if he knew who Mormon was—he didn’t. I told him that Mormon was a prophet, a historian, and a military general in the ancient Americas. I am honored to be associated with a man who was so dedicated to the service of God and others.
“But,” I continued, “Mormon didn’t die for my sins. Jesus Christ is my God and my Savior. He is my Redeemer. And it is by His name that I want to be known at the last day, and it’s by His name that I hope to be known today.”
I felt the assurance of the Spirit supporting me in this short testimony to my new acquaintance. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “So, you’re a Christian?”
“Yes, I’m a Christian,” I responded, “and a member of Christ’s restored Church.”
Seeking to follow the instruction of the prophet seemed simple, but it turned out to take more effort than I expected. I’m still not perfect at following everything I’m asked to do, but I make sure to use the full name of the Church.
I’m grateful for the Spirit that I feel when I get to testify to others about my Savior and my membership in His Church.

Such a project is ongoing on the Pacific Island nation of Kiribati.
Tamana Natanaera, the local self-reliance manager for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, was tasked with finding members with gardening experience and a passion for growing things.
Working with local leaders, Tamana helped to identify seven qualified members whom he refers to as “champions.”
Each champion was given the equipment to set up a nursery tailored to fit in his or her available space.
A simple greenhouse was supplied to hold and protect seedling trays, as well as to offer shade as needed. Seeds were provided for growing nutritious produce such as cucumber, eggplant, capsicum, cabbage, tomato, watermelon, papaya and rock melon.
A watering system is a particular necessity in Kiribati. Although the 33 islands that comprise Kiribati stretch across 3.5 million square kilometres of ocean water, fresh water is very scarce.
The champions were thus each provided with a watering system composed of a small solar pump to draw water from a well, a water tank with a stand, and a piping system.
Tamana Natanaera noted that the water system given to the champions is a big help as it greatly improves their ability to produce more.
With these necessary tools, the champion gardeners are able to do their part. For two years now, they have been planting the seeds in the small trays and nurturing them.
When the seedlings are ready to be transplanted into a garden, the champions begin sharing them with neighbours and friends. They may ask their church leaders to announce to their congregation that seedlings are available. They may also give the seedlings to coworkers or to neighbours in their communities who are interested in growing their own produce.
When the champion has seedlings left over, they can transplant them into their own garden for their personal use or they may sell their excess produce to neighbours.
The Church will provide seeds to the champions for one more year and at the end of that period, the gardeners should be capable of producing their own seeds to maintain growing and sharing the seedlings. The program will continue to bless many people in Kiribati communities.
This project is not just an example of growing seedlings, but also of growing self-reliance, community spirit and neighbourly friendships. Underpinning all of this is a growing faith—among many participants—in He who created all things, and who cares for His children, one by one.

It was the Christmas season of 1994. Nine-year-old Jaron and his six-year-old brother, Parker, were excited. They had entered a reading contest sponsored by a grocery store in their hometown. The two students who read the most books would each win a brand-new bicycle. All they had to do was have their parents and teachers sign for each book they read. Two bikes were to be awarded, one for the first-to-third-grade levels, and one for the fourth-to-sixth-grade levels.
Parker was especially excited because this was a way for him to earn a bike. He really wanted one. He was tired of watching his older brother ride around on the new purple ten-speed bike he had earned by working at a yard sale. Parker thought that it would be great to earn a bike of his own by reading books. So he started to read books as fast as he could. He read Curious George, Green Eggs and Ham, and Brown Bear, Brown Bear. But no matter how many books he read, someone in his grade level had read more.
Meanwhile, Jaron had not been all that enthusiastic about the contest. When he went to the grocery store and checked the big chart with all the readers listed and how many books each had read, however, he could see that his younger brother had little chance of winning the contest.
Touched with the true meaning of Christmas, the joy of giving, he decided to do for Parker what he could not do for himself. So Jaron put away his own bike and, library card in hand, went to work. He read and read. He read when he wanted to ride his bike. He read as much as eight hours a day. The thrill of perhaps having such a wonderful gift to give kept him going.
The day came when the final lists were to be turned in. Jaron’s mother took him to the store, and he turned in his list, then admired the prize-winners bikes on display.
The store manager watched him admire the shiny red twenty-inch bike. “I suppose that if you win the contest,” the manager said, “you’ll want the larger bike, won’t you?”
Jaron looked up at the man’s smiling face and said very seriously, “Oh, no sir. I would like one exactly this size.”
“But isn’t this bike too small for you?”
“No sir—I want to win it for my little brother.”
The man was surprised. He turned to Jaron’s mother and said, “This is the best Christmas story I’ve heard all year!”
Jaron’s mother hadn’t known that he had worked so hard for his little brother. She looked at Jaron with great pride and joy as they went home to await the contest results.
Finally the phone call came! By reading 280 books, Jaron had won! With his parents’ help, he hid the bicycle in his grandma’s basement until Christmas Eve. He could hardly wait to give Parker his gift!
On Christmas Eve, the whole family gathered at Grandma’s home for a special family home evening. Mother told the story of Heavenly Father’s gift to the world of His Son Jesus Christ. Then she told the story of another older brother’s love. Although it wasn’t the great sacrifice the Savior has made for each of us, she said, it was a sacrifice, and it showed how much the older brother loved his younger brother. Parker and his family listened to the story of a brother who had read 280 books to win his little brother a bike.
“My big brother would do something like that for me,” Parker said.
At that, Jaron ran to the other room, where Grandma had moved the bike. The rest of the family proudly grinned while he wheeled out the two-wheeled treasure he had earned for his younger brother. Parker ran over to the bike, and the brothers hugged over the top of it.

They never told us any of this in the Missionary Training Center,” was all I could think of as I followed my companion down a dismal Düsseldorf side street, shuffling my frozen feet through the dirty snow as I went.
Less than a week before, I had left the Missionary Training Center after two intense but glorious months filled with grammar and vocabulary, discussions and scriptures, and a growing recognition of the workings of the Spirit. Still ringing in my ears were countless stories from teachers and General Authorities of the immeasurable joy that awaited me in the mission field and of the way lives would change because of the message I carried.
As I tracted that day I felt betrayed. The only changed life I could see was my own: changed from the comfort of Arizona sunshine to the misery of a German winter and from the freedom of my pre-mission existence to a life-style of exhausting physical work and infinite restrictions.
I wondered where all the joy could be as we climbed endless staircases to talk to people who didn’t want to talk to us. I wondered too, how the truth could possibly make a difference in the lives of those who shut their doors before hearing a complete sentence. Most of all I wondered where the promised Spirit was: the Spirit that softened the hearts of men like Alma and Saul, that guided missionaries like Ammon and Aaron to proclaim the right words to the right people, and that gave messengers like Abinadi and Samuel the Lamanite the strength of conviction and love for the people to carry on despite all persecution and rejection.
I felt no love for the people, no joy in the work, and no Spirit to comfort or inspire me. All I felt was an unfamiliar bitterness, and an aloneness I never knew existed.
As I trudged along, fighting back tears, I turned my thoughts to home, hoping to ease my desperation for even a second. In that frustrated, confused moment, a single picture unfolded in my mind. I saw my parents kneeling at their bedside, heads bowed and brows furrowed in prayer. Their words were for me. “Dear Father, bless our daughter. Keep her from discouragement and lead her in thy paths.”
As that picture faded, a hundred others tumbled one after the other into its place—pictures of six brothers and a sister; of relatives, friends, and ward members all bowed in prayer for me. I glanced at my watch and realized that it was early morning at home and that those earnest prayers were being said right then. And I knew, with undeniable clarity, that they were being answered right then as a feeling of love and warmth dissolved every negative emotion from my soul. I sensed a powerful, glowing triangle, linking home and heaven and me.
I knew then, with a witness that comes only from the Spirit I had sought, that I was a part of a work not my own, but that of a wise and loving Father who sent his Son to show me the way. “I am the vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing” (John 15:5).
Snow still falls and doors still shut, but weekly letters bring a renewed assurance as I read “You are in our prayers,” for I know that each of those prayers ascends to the Source of all love and distills daily upon every servant in His vineyard.

In our family, we have been immeasurably blessed as two decades ago, a young 16-year-old learned that she was expecting a child. She and the baby’s father were not married, and they could see no way forward together. The young woman believed the life she was carrying was precious. She gave birth to a baby girl and allowed a righteous family to adopt her as their own. For Bryce and Jolinne, she was an answer to their prayers. They named her Emily and taught her to trust in her Heavenly Father and in His Son, Jesus Christ.

Emily grew up. How grateful we are that Emily and our grandson, Christian, fell in love and were married in the house of the Lord. Emily and Christian now have their own little girl.

Emily recently wrote: “Throughout these last nine months of pregnancy, I had time to reflect on the events [of] my own birth. I thought of my birth mother, who was just 16 years old. As I experienced the aches and changes that pregnancy brings, I couldn’t help but imagine how difficult it would have been at the young age of 16. … The tears flow even now as I think of my birth mother, who knew she couldn’t give me the life [she desired for me and unselfishly placed] me for adoption. I can’t fathom what she might have gone through in those nine months—being watched with judging eyes as her body changed, the teen experiences she missed, knowing that at the end of this labor of motherly love, she would place her child into the arms of another. I am so thankful for her selfless choice, that she did not choose to use her agency in a way that would take away my own.” Emily concludes, “I’m so thankful for Heavenly Father’s divine plan, for my incredible parents who [loved and cared for] me, and for temples where we can be sealed to our families for eternity.”

Tommy turned over on the straw mattress in the bottom of the wagon box and pulled the patchwork quilt close around his ears. Any other morning the bugle would have blown and he would have been up, but the brethren had decided to stay in Garden Grove, and as a result he could stay in bed this one morning.
But the bugle blew crystal clear after all, right into Tommy’s wagon box. Quickly he put on his shoes, grabbed his coat, and jumped out of the wagon. He met Father coming out of the tent.
“What’s the matter?” Tommy asked.
“I don’t know,” replied his father. “Let’s find out.”
Together they went over to the big bonfire where Brigham Young was waiting for the men of the camp to gather. When they had all arrived, he began. “Today is the twenty-fifth of April and the ground is in condition to plow. We can plant grain now, and by fall there will be a good harvest. If we’re not still here, the Saints coming after us will be able to harvest it. Those who are sick can stay here until they are better. Those who do not have enough food and clothing to go further can stay here until they get what they need. The Saints who come after us can use our houses until they are able to go on.”
He paused and the men were quiet, waiting for him to continue. “I have divided our camp into groups. One hundred will cut logs, 48 will build houses, 10 will build fences, 12 are to dig wells, and 10 will build bridges. The rest, numbering 175, will clear the land of brush, make some wooden plows, and then plant grain.”
As soon as President Young had finished speaking, Tommy ran and told his mother about the new plan. “It’s a wonderful way to help each other,” she said. “Many of our friends in Nauvoo would start out west if they knew there was someplace along the way where they could get food and rest if they were sick.”
“Maybe all our friends would come if they knew this,” said Tommy wistfully, as he remembered the good times with the other boys back in Nauvoo.
“How can we let them know that there will be a house here for them?” asked Betsy.
“I think the brethren will let them know,” Mother answered.
Just then Father came into camp, all excited about his assignment. “I’m going to build houses,” he said, “and Tommy, you’re going to help me!”
“Hooray!” said Tommy. And Tommy’s mother smiled as her two men walked off together.
The weeks that followed were busy ones. Every morning the camp was awakened by the bugle. Everyone started to work as soon as breakfast was over and the morning prayers were said. Within two weeks it was as if the little village, with all its houses, fences, bridges, and wells, had been there for a long time. Around it were acres and acres of land that had been plowed and leveled and planted into wheat. Tommy and Betsy liked to imagine the pies and cakes they might have at harvest time. It had been a long time since they had tasted even a piece of bread made out of real flour instead of cornmeal. They were so tired of corn that sometimes they went to bed hungry rather than eat it.
Tommy was proud of the houses he helped build. They were made of logs stacked one on the other. His job was to fill the cracks between the logs with mud and grass. It was a happy day when Tommy and Betsy moved with their father and mother into one of these houses. There was a fireplace at one end of a large room. Father made a table and some benches for the center of the room and a rough bed frame for one corner. Betsy and her mother made a rope spring by weaving a long, thin rope over the bed rails from front to back and from head to foot until the spring was woven into three-inch squares.
“It makes the bed soft and jiggly,” said Betsy when she sat on it.
“It’s better than sleeping on hard boards,” said Tommy, as he thought of his bed in the wagon box.
When everything was in place, Betsy looked around at her new home. A fire was burning in the fireplace, a pot pie was simmering on the hearth, and a clean cloth was on the table, which had been set for supper. “It’s a beautiful home,” she said. “I hope we can live in it for a long time.”
But Tommy and Betsy only lived in their house for three weeks. On June 1 Father told them, “We must leave in the morning for Council Bluffs. President Young wants us to go there to build houses and plant crops as we have done here.”
Tommy and Betsy looked sad. Mother tried to comfort them, saying, “It doesn’t really matter where we live as long as we’re together. It’s the love that people have for each other that makes a home, not the place they live in. The important thing now is that we show our Heavenly Father how much we love him by doing what he wants us to do.”
When everything was packed and the family was ready to leave the next morning, they sat down for their last meal. Suddenly there was the sound of wagons—many of them. “It must be a wagon train coming to join us,” said Father. And instead of eating, the family went out on the road to greet the newcomers.
Tommy saw some friends in one of the wagons. “Eliza, Elija,” he called. The newcomers turned and shouted for joy and, jumping out of the wagon, ran to meet Betsy and Tommy.
Father invited Eliza and Elija’s family to supper. Mother made a bed so their mother could lie down. Betsy was glad that she and her mother had made the rope springs so the bed would be more comfortable.
That night, before settling down in their wagon-box bed, Tommy said, “I’m glad Eliza and Elija are going to live in our house.”
“I am too,” said Betsy. “It is good they have such a nice house to come home to.”

My mother taught me an important lesson along these lines. For many years my father had a practice of trading for a new car every year. Then shortly after World War II when grain prices increased, we were surprised one day when Dad drove home in a more expensive car.
One morning my mother asked, “How much more did the new car cost than the other one?”
When Dad told her, my mother said, “Well, the other car has always been able to get me where I need to go. I think we ought to give the difference to someone who needs it more than we do.”
And so it was. The next year Dad returned to the less-expensive cars, and they continued their generous ways.

For instance, as soon as I returned from a four-day Scout camping trip recently, my wife said she needed to talk. I was completely exhausted and couldn’t concentrate on anything. I might have tried to listen to her until I fell asleep. I might have complained about her not being sensitive to my need for sleep. But, I decided to let her know that I appreciated her need to share her experiences with me, but I was so tired I knew I would be a poor listener. We agreed on a specific time the next day when we would talk—and we did.

“I’m home!” Daddy called. He was home early for Wyatt’s birthday. Wyatt turned five today!
Wyatt ran to him. Daddy gave him a big hug. “After lunch, you and I will go to the park,” Daddy said.
“Just us?” Wyatt asked. He loved his mom and his little sister, Maria, but sometimes he wanted to do things with just Daddy.
“Just us,” Daddy said.
Mommy made a lunch with all of Wyatt’s favorites. She also made a crown out of gold paper and glitter.
“Is that for me?” Wyatt asked, eyes wide.
“It is,” Mommy said.
It was a special birthday!
Wyatt wore the crown to the park. It kept slipping off his head, but he didn’t mind. “Daddy, does my birthday crown make me special?” he asked.
Daddy smiled. “A birthday crown is fun, but it’s not what makes you special. You are special because you are a child of God! And so is everyone else. That means everyone is special too.”
Daddy and Wyatt played on the playground. Wyatt went down the slide.
“Do you think I can go down the slide too?” Daddy asked.
Wyatt giggled. “You’re too big.”
Wyatt climbed up the ladder to go down the slide again. A girl was in front of him. She was afraid to go down. Wyatt thought about how everyone was special to Heavenly Father.
“You can do it!” he said.
She slid down the slide. So did Wyatt.
“Good job!” Wyatt said. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
Being kind made Wyatt happy! He knew everyone was special, whether they had a birthday crown or not.

—Click! A switch was flipped, and a tiny sewing machine light guided adroit fingers over a swatch of terrycloth. The cultural hall of the Irvine California Stake Center was lined with sewing machines, and the middle was filled with cutting tables. The young women were making bibs for a local home for abused children.
“When they told us they use about 350 bibs per day, I thought, Wow—this service project really will make a difference,” said Katheryn Clayton.

May we learn an important lesson from a missionary recently interviewed. This elder, in answer to the question, “How often do you receive letters from your parents?” responded with, “Very, very seldom.”
“What are you doing about it?” I asked.
“I’m still writing them every week.”
Here is a young man who may have had some excuse to pity himself with a “nobody” label when his parents don’t bother to write, but he is having no part of this kind of attitude. Further conversation with him emphatically convinced me that here is a young man who is really someone. If his parents don’t write, that is their responsibility. His responsibility is to write, and that is just what he is doing with enthusiasm. I have never met this missionary’s mother or father, probably never will, but wherever they are, in my mind they are “somebody” just to have him for their son. This missionary will succeed because he knows he is someone and is conducting himself accordingly.

The testimony of the Prophet Joseph continues to change lives. Some years ago I served as the president of the Canadian Mission. In Ontario, Canada, two of our missionaries were proselyting door-to-door on a cold, snowy afternoon. They had not had any measure of success. One elder was experienced; one was new.
The two called at the home of Mr. Elmer Pollard, and he, feeling sympathy for the almost frozen missionaries, invited them in. They presented their message and asked if he would join in prayer. He agreed, on the provision that he could offer the prayer.
The prayer he offered astonished the missionaries. He said, “Heavenly Father, bless these two unfortunate, misguided missionaries, that they may return to their homes and not waste their time telling the people of Canada about a message which is so fantastic and about which they know so little.”
As they arose from their knees, Mr. Pollard asked the missionaries never to return to his home. As they left, he said mockingly to them, “You can’t tell me you really believe that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, anyway!” and he slammed the door.
The missionaries had walked but a short distance when the junior companion said timidly, “Elder, we didn’t answer Mr. Pollard.”
The senior companion responded: “We’ve been rejected. Let’s move on.”
The young missionary persisted, however, and the two returned to Mr. Pollard’s door. Mr. Pollard answered the knock and angrily said, “I thought I told you young men never to return!”
The junior companion then said, with all the courage he could muster, “Mr. Pollard, when we left your door, you said that we didn’t really believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I want to testify to you, Mr. Pollard, that I know Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, that by inspiration he translated the sacred record known as the Book of Mormon, that he did see God the Father and Jesus the Son.” The missionaries then departed the doorstep.
I heard this same Mr. Pollard in a testimony meeting state the experiences of that memorable day. He said: “That evening, sleep would not come. I tossed and turned. Over and over in my mind I heard the words, ‘Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know it. … I know it. … I know it.’ I could scarcely wait for morning to come. I telephoned the missionaries, using their number which was printed on the small card containing the Articles of Faith. They returned, and this time my wife, my family, and I joined in the discussion as earnest seekers of truth. As a result, we have all embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ. We shall ever be grateful to the testimony of truth brought to us by those two courageous, humble missionaries.”

One of the great examples of mercy in our time was extended by the Prophet Joseph to W. W. Phelps during the troubles of the Saints in the state of Missouri. Elder Phelps fell into apostasy. After suffering buffetings, on June 29, 1840, while in Dayton, Ohio, W. W. Phelps wrote to the Prophet Joseph:
“I have seen the folly of my way, and I tremble at the gulf I have passed. … I will repent and live, and ask my old brethren to forgive me, and though they chasten me to death, yet I will die with them, for their God is my God. The least place with them is enough for me, yea, it is bigger and better than all Babylon. …
“… I have done wrong and I am sorry. … I have not walked along with my friends according to my holy anointing. I ask forgiveness in the name of Jesus Christ of all the Saints, for I will do right, God helping me. I want your fellowship; if you cannot grant that, grant me your peace and friendship, for we are brethren, and our communion used to be sweet.”
To this the Prophet Joseph replied:
“It is true, that we have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough … , was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us. One with whom we had oft taken sweet counsel together, and enjoyed many refreshing seasons from the Lord—‘had it been an enemy, we could have borne it.’ …
“However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive. … And having been delivered from the hands of wicked men by the mercy of our God, we say it is your privilege to be delivered from the powers of the adversary, … and again take your stand among the Saints of the Most High, and by diligence, humility, and love unfeigned, commend yourself to our God, and your God, and to the Church of Jesus Christ.
“Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal. …
“‘Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
“‘For friends at first, are friends again at last.’
“Yours as ever, Joseph Smith, Jun.”
W. W. Phelps remained true and faithful and wrote the words to the marvelous hymn “Praise to the Man,” affirming his great love and admiration for the Prophet Joseph:
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!
Jesus anointed that Prophet and Seer.
Blessed to open the last dispensation,
Kings shall extol him, and nations revere.

The Young Women of the Bartlesville Oklahoma Second Ward, Tulsa Oklahoma Stake, have been working for several years to earn enough money to make a temple trip. They originally intended to make the trip to Utah to do baptisms for the dead in the Salt Lake Temple. But when the announcement was made that a temple was to be built in Dallas, Texas, they decided to donate the money they had earned in money-making projects to the temple fund.

Although their temple trip has been postponed until the new temple is completed, the Bartlesville Young Women are excited to know that the temple will be close enough to make more frequent trips.

I feel like whenever I hear testimonies about paying tithing, they always include miraculous, earth-shattering experiences.
I’m grateful for these testimonies, but I’ve never had this kind of experience before.
But then again, I’ve never had the Spirit knock me on the head, either—it has always been more subtle.
I’ve always paid tithing. I’ve never really considered not paying it, originally because my parents expected it, then as I went to college because I felt inspired to. And as I got married and started having kids, I continued because I had faith in Jesus Christ and a firm testimony of the blessings that can come from paying a full tithe.
When I pay my tithing, things just kind of work out. We always have enough food. Things end up being a little cheaper than I thought they would be, or I’m able to find sales or coupons. Granted, I have to work for it—it takes effort and faith. We save and we are frugal and we budget. But when all is said and done, at the end of the day, I always know things will be OK because I’ve paid my tithing and done the best I could and put the rest in God’s hands.
As I was thinking back on my experiences and why I have such a strong testimony of tithing, I thought of something interesting. At least for me, the blessings of tithing are not like the manna from heaven. I don’t just get random checks of money in the mail or random meals from someone who was inspired to bring me something. It’s more like when Jesus fed the 5,000 (see Matthew 14:14–21). A young man offered all the food he had. The Savior gave thanks to God and then fed everyone, with only five loaves of bread and two fishes. And miraculously everyone was filled, and there was food to spare.
There have been some weeks when I have not been sure what I would eat because I needed to feed my family. But somehow there is always enough. Food doesn’t just appear. But I feel satisfied with a smaller portion and so does my husband. I don’t get extra cash, but I am able to stretch what we do have farther.
It’s amazing how Heavenly Father works with us and with what we need. Everyone is different. Everyone’s needs are different. And so our blessings are different. It’s amazing how aware of our needs He is, both physical and spiritual. I’ve been blessed by paying my tithing. I want you to know that.

I recently witnessed the evidence of this truth in a most unusual setting. May I share it with you? In June of this year I was invited to attend a graduation exercise conducted by the LDS Institute of Religion and Church Social Services Department held at the Utah State Prison. Seventeen men received certificates of award: nine received their first-year certificates, five their second-year, and three their third. Twenty-four others had participated in religion classes but did not quite qualify for certificates.
As I recall, only two had been released from prison and had returned that evening to receive their certificates. All of the others were inmates. Many of them were not members of the Church.
One would hardly expect in the environment of the prison to hear the beautiful, stirring hymns “I Need Thee Every Hour” and “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” They were sung by two choruses composed of white and black prisoners.
Men dressed in prison uniforms offered humble, sincere prayers to God, expressing gratitude for their blessings and for the knowledge they now have of his gospel. Several stood at the pulpit and testified that they know God lives, and expressed gratitude for his goodness to them. May I tell you of just two of these men—men whose lives were seriously out of step with society; men with internal, personal problems that really are not much different from those of many who have never been in prison. I shall not identify them by their real names.
The first one we will call Jim. Jim comes from a distant state. He is a fine-looking, clean-cut young man not quite thirty years old. He was one of those who opposed the establishment and society in general. He came from a broken home. He had experienced no love in his life. He left home at age seventeen and joined the army. After release from the military, he wandered about the country without goal or purpose in life, finally finding himself in Salt Lake City. He was involved in a theft, arrested, convicted, and sent to prison. He escaped one day, was recaptured, and was placed in maximum security. In his words, “I came out of maximum security and returned to medium, and still did not know what to do with my life.”
One of the prisoners, knowing of some of the turmoil Jim was going through, sent him to see the LDS chaplain. This was the beginning of a completely new experience in Jim’s life. Even though he found himself in prison, he had taken the first step to a freedom he had not known existed.
After a few weeks of exposure to the program of the Church specially designed for prison life, he said he was able to give up smoking. He became involved in the various religious programs sponsored by the Church social service agency. He said, “I haven’t smoked a cigarette since that day. I haven’t had a cup of coffee since December of last year.” He goes on to tell of the good feeling of accomplishment in overcoming bad personal habits.
He also tells about the family home evening program conducted by his home teachers. He explained that he would have given up in discouragement many times had it not been for this wonderful couple who had been assigned as his home teachers. He said they actually loved him as a son, something he had never experienced in his life, even as a little boy. In his own words: “I have been in this program since June 16, 1970. For these sixteen months, I probably made more changes in my life—inside these walls away from the rat race of society—that I know are going to determine my whole future more than the first twenty-three years of my life before prison. I had no idea at all what the LDS people were or what the Church was until I went to prison.
“I am not proud of being in prison, but I am proud of my experience while being there. I am proud of being a graduate of the program that the LDS people have offered to the inmates at the prison.”
This is the young man who conducted the graduation exercises and did it in a most impressive manner. His goal now is to finish paying his debt to society in order to be released from prison so that he might prepare for baptism and membership in the Church.
And now about Ed. Ed also comes from a distant city. Ed started stealing when he was nine. He was arrested for auto theft at age thirteen, later convicted of grand larceny, and sent to prison in another state. He came to Utah, was arrested for and convicted of grand larceny again, and was sent to the Utah State Prison.
Ed became acquainted with the Church social services program conducted in the prison in much the same way as Jim. Once when Ed was on his way to one of the Church meetings, some of the prisoners ridiculed him, as only hardened convicts could. He responded that when he was on the outside he had acted as they did. Now he wanted to change and no one was going to stop him.
Ed had some particularly wonderful home teachers who occasionally brought their own children to the prison to have family home evening with him. The children consider Ed as an older brother. He considers himself a member of their family. Ed was one of those who had been released from prison and had returned to receive his certificate at the graduation exercises. He was invited to speak at the service.
As he stood at the pulpit, he took a piece of paper from his pocket. Holding it up to the audience, he said: “You probably can’t read this, but this is the most important document in my life. This is my baptismal recommend that will permit me to be baptized next Thursday.” Ed was baptized. After his confirmation, he walked over to a corner of the room where he could be alone and wept. He wept even more when he was ordained a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood.
What conclusions can we draw from this? Certainly these young men were faced with serious problems. Yes, they had lost their physical freedom by being confined in jail, but this was not the basic problem. Even more serious was the lack of purpose in their lives. They had no place to go. They were lost. Life had no meaning. They had no idea why they were here on earth or where they were going.
Release from the prison would not begin to solve their most urgent problems; and yet, in the environment of prison, they found the release that could ultimately make them truly free men. They found their Savior, Jesus Christ, and his gospel.
There are many who find themselves in circumstances similar to those of Jim and Ed—not necessarily confined to a correctional institution, but nevertheless in prison, a prison from which legal authorities cannot release them, a prison of personal habits such as alcohol, drugs, immorality, selfishness, dishonesty, laziness, aimlessness; yes, these can be more confining and damning than any state prison. Yet there is a way to escape to a freedom that surpasses anything designed by man—the kind of freedom Jim and Ed have found.
This freedom can only be found by accepting the divine plan and keeping the commandments of him who gave his life for each of us that we might find eternal life—even Jesus Christ. For did he not say: “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free”? (John 8:32.) In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Eric’s father had a tiny farm out in the country. He had taken the family to work on the farm, but Eric remained at home in his shed, alone. Meanwhile, his sores enlarged to huge wounds and infection entered into his bones, a life-threatening condition called osteomyelitis.

When he was 18, Eric saw his friend Emmanuel Ofosu-hene speaking English with an obruni (white man). The obruni was a Mormon missionary, Elder Old. “I only spoke Twi, but Emmanuel interpreted for me: ‘I am so sick I think I will die. Can you help me know what to do so I can go to heaven?’

“Elder Old and his African companion sat with me and taught me. For some reason, they started with the Word of Wisdom. I knew they were speaking the truth because I already knew coffee and tobacco were bad.” They also gave Eric a brochure about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and invited him to church.

“When I went, I saw this Church was different,” he says. “It was reverent.” Even though it took him an hour to push himself to church in his wheelchair, Eric loved the meetings. “I wanted to go up front and be with people,” he says. “But I stayed at the back because I knew I smelled bad.”

Eric told the missionaries, “What I am learning is true.” He also told them he wanted to be baptized, but doctors had warned him not to get his wounds wet. “I will rely on God to provide answers,” he said. He attended church for about a year and then became too ill and weak to wheel himself there.

Eric’s mother, Lucy, met the missionaries, studied the gospel, and was baptized in 2015. But because her broken leg had never been properly set, it was painful for her to walk. Attending meetings was a challenge for her, as well.
Eventually, Eric was taken to the hospital again. In Ghana, patients have to provide their own water, food, bedding, medicine, and bandages. If they have no money, they are not treated. Eric’s mother and sisters did what they could. Eric received food and medical attention infrequently, so he grew weaker.

Then Eric received some unexpected visitors. Missionaries, Sister Peprah and Sister Nafuna, had seen his photograph at the church and came to see him in the hospital and brought him food. It had been a year since he had been to church, but he told them he still wanted to be baptized.
A few days later, Eric’s sister visited him and found him very ill. She ran home and told their mother. Though their mother had suffered permanent leg damage in the accident with Eric, she walked to the hospital, wincing with every step. “You must come home,” she told Eric. “If you’re going to die, I at least want you near.”
The next morning, the sister missionaries came to the house. “You weren’t at the hospital,” Sister Peprah said. “So we came here.” With them were Elder and Sister Wood, senior missionaries from New Zealand. They took inventory of needs and promised to return.
A few days later, Eric’s father took the family back to the farm—except Eric, who found himself alone again and without food or water. When Elder and Sister Wood returned and discovered Eric alone and hungry, they brought him food and water. They returned the next day and noticed fluid running down his leg and found a huge open ulcer on his thigh. They immediately took Eric back to the hospital.
The Woods learned of a medical humanitarian team from the United States that would be coming to Ghana. The team would perform surgery for Eric without cost. The surgeon treated the ulcer on Eric’s leg. But when he saw the severity of Eric’s wounds, as well as the osteomyelitis, he determined he could not do all the necessary procedures in Ghana. Based on his recommendation, the humanitarian organization initiated a process that would eventually bring Eric to the United States to receive additional treatment and permanently close his wounds. In addition, a shelter in Winneba, Ghana, run by members of the Church, agreed to have Eric live there when he returned so that he could attend school and complete his education.
While in Utah for surgery, Eric visits the reflecting pool near the Salt Lake Temple. Eric says he loves the feeling of peace he finds at the Salt Lake Temple.
Elder Wood, an engineer by profession, rebuilt Eric’s hand-pedal tricycle. He performed a similar overhaul on his wheelchair. He also counseled with President Cosgrave of the Ghana Kumasi Mission, a medical doctor. They felt Eric could be baptized if proper precautions were taken.
Eric shows his tricycle to his mother and siblings after senior missionaries repaired it.
“Elder Wood wrapped my body in plastic, with tape around the plastic,” Eric explains. “Then he carried me into a font filled with water treated with disinfectant. I was baptized on June 26, 2016.” Eric had relied on the Lord, and the Lord had provided a way.
Today, Eric is studying to become a computer technician. But also feels he can influence others through music—he likes to rap in Twi. His upbeat message talks about how God rescued him. One of his favorite scriptures says, “Look to God and live” (Alma 37:47). And he still says, “I see God in everything.”
He adds, “I don’t want anyone to think the way Heavenly Father has blessed me is identical to how He will bless them. But He will bless those who trust Him. When you have to deal with hard things, pray and trust God.”
Eric looks forward to a bright future. He’s studying to be a computer technician and also feels he can inspire others with music.

“He’s a vigorous man who was raised in the tradition of hard work. His father taught him the value of money at an early age. At seventeen, Grandfather held five jobs.

“Grandfather likes to tell us about experiences he had when he was young. He recalls with a smile that once when he was attending school away from home, he wrote his father, telling him that he needed money for a new pair of shoes and hoping there might be a little left over to take out his girl friend. His father responded by sending him only the new shoes.”

“Where is David?” I had asked this question many times before, so I already knew the answer.
“In heaven.” My mother smiled sadly. She added, “If we live righteously, someday we can be with him again.”
David was my oldest brother. He had died before I was born. Even though I’d never known him in life, I had seen him in photos and home movies. I felt close to him.
I had another older brother, Jeff. He was barely a year older than I was, but while I was timid and shy, Jeff was fearless. In our backyard was the tallest tree in the neighborhood. I liked to look up its trunk into its vast reaches, where it seemed to touch the clouds. I imagined myself at its top, but I couldn’t even reach its lowest branches. This didn’t stop Jeff. He stood up on our little red wagon and scrambled up the trunk like a monkey, disappearing into the thick foliage. From the leafy shadows his voice beckoned to me. “Come on. Come see what it’s like up here.”
I shook my head. It looked too dark and dim up there, like the inside of a cave or a long tunnel. I was afraid to follow him.
I wondered if David would have climbed the tall tree as fearlessly as Jeff. Would he have raced Jeff to the top? I would never know, because while Jeff was climbing the tree’s topmost branches, David was in heaven.
“Where is heaven?” I asked my mother later that day. “Is it far away? What does it look like?”
“Prophets tell us that those who have died are not far from us, so heaven is very near,” my mother explained. “Joseph Smith said that it is so beautiful we would do anything to get there. Jesus described it as having many mansions and assures us that He has gone ahead to prepare a place for us. It must be a wonderful place—even more wonderful because Jesus is there, waiting for us.”
“And so is David,” I said.
“Yes, he is.” My mother patted my cheek, and I saw tears of hope in her eyes.
I accepted my mother’s answers even though it was hard for me to imagine such a place. Heaven must be like the beautiful earth I knew, but much more glorious and beautiful. But if it was so close, why couldn’t I see it?
Jeff got a camera for his ninth birthday. It was an inexpensive kind, but he loved that camera and took pictures of everything. His favorite subject was nature: birds, our family dog, vacation scenes. One day he put two snapshots into my hands. “Look,” he said, with unconcealed excitement.
“What is it?” I turned the snapshots up and down, trying to see something recognizable.
“It’s the view from the top of the tree,” he said, his face lit with enthusiasm. “Since you couldn’t climb up, I took some pictures for you.” He pointed to each snapshot. “This one is looking towards the mountains. See the church steeple sticking up through the trees?”
“Wow!” I breathed. Now I could see clearly what I was looking at: treetops, rooftops, and an endless sky. It was a whole new world, a totally different perspective, something I had never seen or even imagined.
He pointed to the second snapshot. “This one is looking the other direction. On clear days you can see all the way to the ocean.”
I was awestruck and grateful. It was one of the greatest gifts I had ever received. My older brother had gone to places I could not go and brought back to me a glimpse of their beauty. It was truly amazing.
And he had given me another gift as well. That experience helped me to understand how there could be a heaven—a place of glory just beyond my reach. I might not be able to see it, but it was there. I felt certain of this. And I felt equally certain that someday I would stand hand in hand with my brothers, gazing upon the wonders of heaven, in glorious living color. And Jesus would say, “Come. See the place that I have prepared for you.”

The issue of paying tithing came up in our family when our daughter joined the Church. At the time, neither my husband nor I were members. She was earning her own money, but because she lived with my husband and me, we all shared our earnings. I could not imagine how we would manage without the 10 percent of her income that she decided to pay in tithing, but I gradually became accustomed to my daughter’s decision. Whenever she brought her paycheck home, my first question was, “Have you set aside your tithing?”
Eventually I became interested in learning about the gospel, but I decided not to join the Church because I would have to pay tithing. Two tithing payments from one family budget were just too much!
After attending church for more than a year, I began to feel dissatisfied and uneasy. As I pondered and prayed, I realized that I wanted to pay tithing. I was surprised at my desire, given my previous opposition.
The following Sunday, I asked the branch president for a tithing slip. I was disappointed to hear that until I was a member, I could not pay tithing. I could, however, make a donation. And so I donated 10 percent of my income to the Lord’s Church. Immediately I felt comfort, joy, and satisfaction. I could hardly wait for the day of my baptism so I could pay a real tithe.
I know that the temporal blessings we enjoy in our family come from paying tithing. But the greatest blessings are the incomparable feelings we have when we obey our Heavenly Father: satisfaction from being obedient, confidence that our Heavenly Father will not abandon us, and feelings of peace and happiness.