Gospel Story Finder

Miguel raced down the street clutching a small piece of paper in his hand. His dark hair blew away from his face and his brown eyes shone with happiness as he ran upstairs into the apartment.
“Look what Peter gave me,” Miguel said breathlessly. He handed his mother the piece of paper. It was an invitation to Peter’s birthday party.
“May I go?” Miguel asked. “It’s tomorrow afternoon.”
“Of course you can go,” Mother replied. She had not seen Miguel so happy in a long time.
Miguel missed his old home since his family had moved to the city. The people were nice, but they had different ways and they didn’t speak Spanish. Miguel’s parents spoke some English, but mostly Spanish was spoken at home.
When Miguel’s father came home that night, Miguel told him about the party. “What shall I take Peter?” Miguel asked. “Some of the boys said they were getting cars for his collection, but I don’t know what kind he wants.”
Miguel wanted to take something very special for Peter. When Miguel had first come to school, Peter became his friend. Peter had not teased or made fun of Miguel as some of the other boys had done. In fact, Peter had even asked Miguel to teach him some Spanish words.
After supper Miguel and his father sat at the table. Miguel watched his father pick up a block of pinewood and begin to carve with his pocketknife. His father carved small animals, and Miguel thought they were beautiful. But tonight Miguel was more interested in the birthday party and what he should take as a present than he was in his father’s carvings.
At last Miguel’s father looked up from his work and said, “Do you think Peter would like to have one of my little burros?”
Miguel looked at his father in surprise. “Oh, yes,” answered Miguel. “I’m sure Peter would really like one.”
Picking up a burro from the shelf, Father asked, “How about this little burro?”
The burro had large ears and a gentle expression on its face. It had strong legs and a firm neck. On the burro’s head and neck, Miguel’s father had glued thin strips of leather for a halter, and over its back was a harness. Fastened to the harness were two casks for carrying grain. Each cask had been carefully carved out of wood.
Miguel was filled with excitement at the thought of taking such a present to Peter.
The next day when Miguel arrived for the party, he smiled as he handed Peter the tissue-wrapped present and said, “Happy birthday!”
“Hi, Miguel,” answered Peter. “Come in. We’re just about to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey.”
As Peter put Miguel’s present on the table next to the others, Roger walked over and picked up the little white box. “Hey,” he shouted, “it’s so light I’ll bet it’s empty!” Then Roger put Miguel’s box right next to the biggest present there. It looked small next to the large package wrapped in bright green paper.
After the boys played a few games, they all sat down on the floor to watch Peter open his presents.
Miguel had never seen so many wonderful gifts. There was a sports car, an antique car, and a car-building kit.
“Hurry and open mine!” Roger shouted.
Peter picked up Roger’s present, tore away the green wrapping, and opened the big heavy box. Out came a bright, shiny blue metal car with a trailer and boat attached to it. The boys all crowded around to see the car.
The boys were so excited over the car they forgot about the one small gift left on the table. But Miguel had not forgotten. All of a sudden he wished he hadn’t come to the party. His present was not like any of the others. He wished he had a shiny car to give Peter.
As Miguel looked around at all the fancy presents, he thought of the little carved burro. A large lump started to form in his throat as Peter reached up and took the small white box. The lump grew bigger and bigger when Peter unwrapped the tissue paper and held up the little burro.
Slowly Peter turned the burro around in his hands. “It’s beautiful,” he said softly.
“What is it?” Roger asked in a loud voice.
“It’s a burro,” answered Miguel quietly. “My father carved it.”
“You mean it’s homemade?” laughed Roger.
“Yes,” answered Miguel. “My father is the best wood-carver ever!”
“He sure is,” said Peter. “I’ve never had anything like this before.”
Miguel looked surprised. Peter really did like his present.
All of the boys crowded around Peter and wanted to hold the little burro.
“My father makes many little animals and figures,” Miguel explained. “And he is teaching me to carve also.”
“Oh, Miguel!” exclaimed Peter. “Would he teach me too?”
“Sure,” Miguel replied happily.
The little burro was given a special place of honor on the table next to the birthday cake.
As Miguel looked at the burro, he felt a warm glow within him. He was glad he had come. Being different wasn’t so bad after all!

Years ago when Sister Nelson and I had several teenaged daughters, we took our family on a vacation far away from telephones and boyfriends. We went on a raft trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. As we started our journey, we had no idea how dangerous this trip could be.
The first day was beautiful. But on the second day, when we approached Horn Creek rapids and saw that precipitous drop ahead, I was terrified. Floating on a rubber raft, our precious family was about to plunge over a waterfall! Instinctively I put one arm around my wife and the other around our youngest daughter. To protect them, I tried to hold them close to me. But as we reached the precipice, the bended raft became a giant sling and shot me into the air. I landed into the roiling rapids of the river. I had a hard time coming up. Each time I tried to find air, I hit the underside of the raft. My family couldn’t see me, but I could hear them shouting, “Daddy! Where’s Daddy?”
I finally found the side of the raft and rose to the surface. The family pulled my nearly drowned body out of the water. We were thankful to be safely reunited.
The next several days were pleasant and delightful. Then came the last day, when we were to go over Lava Falls, known as the most dangerous drop of the journey. When I saw what was ahead, I immediately asked to beach the raft and hold an emergency family council meeting, knowing that if we were to survive this experience, we needed to plan carefully. I reasoned with our family: “No matter what happens, the rubber raft will remain on top of the water. If we cling with all our might to ropes secured to the raft, we can make it. Even if the raft should capsize, we will be all right if we hang tightly to the ropes.”
I turned to our little seven-year-old daughter and said, “All of the others will cling to a rope. But you will need to hold on to your daddy. Sit behind me. Put your arms around me and hold me tightly while I hold the rope.”
That we did. We crossed those steep, rough rapids—hanging on for dear life—and all of us made it safely.

Kelly
Fortunately, Henry got a spiritual “wake-up call” that came early in his career as a management consultant. In those days, he traveled a lot, often overseas. During one particularly busy month, his credit card provider called to warn that his card had been stolen. In fact, Henry had the card with him; it hadn’t been stolen. But he had used it so much—for expensive airline tickets and hotel rooms—that it was hard for the credit-card-fraud detectors to believe that just one person could legally spend so much money in one month.
Henry
In reality, there had been a thief: me. And the theft was not one of money, but of time and effort that should have been invested in my family and my calling as a stake high councilor. Not long after the phone call from the credit card company, I was interviewed by a counselor in the stake presidency who expressed concern about my poor attendance at Thursday-evening high council meetings. Later, when I complained to Sister Eyring about his lack of appreciation for my heavy travel, she gently replied, “I know how your Church leader feels: It’s easier for the children and me when you’re gone for a long time because then we can maintain a predictable schedule.”
Kelly
I appreciated Henry’s desire to provide well for our family. But his financial compensation was more than we needed. And our three children were growing up quickly, spending less time with their father than they or he wanted. It was a relief when other job opportunities presented themselves, one of them entirely unlooked for. That new position paid less and required a long daily commute. But it allowed Henry to be at home for dinner and weekends, with a focus on our children. The new job also gave him time to serve effectively as a bishop.
Recognizing What Matters Most
Henry
I awakened from my long-held dream of professional prestige and financial wealth just in time to be attentive to our children as they reached the teenage years. It was only in hindsight that I recognized the degree to which I had bought into the world’s definition of success. Its temporal prizes, including promotion and ever-higher pay and perks, had become my way of “keeping score” and feeling proud of myself.

For Mindy, a young mother of twin toddlers, the simple efforts of her ministering sister made a huge difference in her sacrament meeting experience every week.
“Because of my husband’s work schedule, I take our twin daughters to church by myself every week,” Mindy explains. “It’s really overwhelming to try to make it through all of sacrament meeting with two busy toddlers, but my ministering sister has taken it upon herself to help me.
“She sits with us and helps me take care of my girls every week. Just having her next to me means so much and really eases my anxiety in their moments of tantrums or fussiness. I don’t think she’ll ever know how much her actions have impacted me at this time in my life. She saw my need as a young, anxiety-filled mother, and she helps make church a peaceful and happy place for all of us.”

Photograph courtesy of the author
Screams echoed through the trees as people ran to avoid lava and falling rocks. I stood backstage listening to the soundtrack booming through speakers across the hill.
That summer, I participated in the Hill Cumorah Pageant, which portrayed several events from the Book of Mormon. I had been cast as a harvest dancer (see 1 Nephi 18:23–24) and an unbeliever (see 3 Nephi 1:4–21), but everyone, including the staff, was a part of the upcoming scene.
A spotlight shone on a figure dressed in white, seemingly floating above the highest tier of the stage. He wasn’t really the Savior, of course—just a volunteering college student like me. But in that moment onstage, I imagined the real Savior standing there instead.
I pictured Him walking up to me, and I imagined looking into His eyes. Feelings from the Spirit washed over me. In that moment, I had a taste of what it must be like to see my true Savior. I treasured this unique spiritual experience.
Six months later, a statement from Bishop W. Christopher Waddell, then Second Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric, changed my perspective: “Each Sunday we are able to have an experience similar to one shared by the survivors of the serious destruction that occurred at the time of the Savior’s crucifixion, as described in the Book of Mormon.”1
I was stunned. Was it possible for me to feel, every week, the same way I had felt onstage that night? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that partaking of the sacrament is a personal experience with the Savior much like kneeling in front of Him and feeling the prints of the nails in His hands and feet.
We don’t need to be in a pageant to experience the Savior’s love and understanding or to visualize a personal moment with Him. We have opportunities every week. Each Sunday, He is waiting to show us His love and understanding. We just need to come unto Him.

I was 12 when I heard about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I met two LDS missionaries on the bus. They asked if they could come teach my family.
The missionaries left us a copy of the Book of Mormon and a pamphlet of Joseph Smith’s testimony. My parents were wonderful people. But they did not join the Church at that time.
The two items stayed on our bookshelf for many years. Then one day when I was 18, I looked through our bookshelf for something good to read. I picked up the Book of Mormon and read the first chapter. A special feeling came to me as I read.
In my heart I felt the book was true. The Book of Mormon had a special message about Jesus Christ’s Atonement. I learned more about my own life and about Heavenly Father’s blessings.
Next I read the pamphlet. I was very impressed. Even though Joseph Smith was only 14, he had the courage to ask Heavenly Father which church was true.
From that time on, I have always followed Joseph Smith’s example. I read the scriptures and ask Heavenly Father for help and guidance. Prayer and the Book of Mormon are very important parts of my life.

The Christmas season often reminds me of my childhood and the feelings of beauty, joy and peace during this special time of the year. My grandmother, a devoted Catholic, taught me to enjoy this wonderful season of the year. Usually every Saturday I would go with her to the local Catholic church, where we would clean the building and then decorate the stand with natural flowers in preparation for the Sunday worship service.
I remember we once had to decorate the chapel for a Christmas Eve celebration. We picked flowers and entered the church, but before we started decorating, she softly and convincingly told me, “Today’s decoration is special because tomorrow, we celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus, the Son of God.” I had a special feeling. I had just learned from my family that Jesus is our Savior.
Realizing that I had the privilege to prepare to celebrate His coming gave me a special feeling that I have not forgotten. That Christmas had a deeper meaning for me. The Christmas song we sang that day—“Faraway, I hear angels of heaven singing glory to God in heaven and peace on earth to men of good will”—still echoes in my mind. Looking at the Nativity scene, I felt like I was part of the event of the birth of Christ. The Nativity scene was often decorated with candles that illuminated our eyes and our hearts. It was not adorned with decorations that we have today, but its simplicity and natural beauty gave true meaning to Christmas. I felt that someone special had been born—He was my friend, my Savior and the Light of the World. I felt an unusual peace in my heart and, being a child, I could not quite yet understand where that feeling came from, nor could I explain it. I am grateful today for my grandmother, Geneviève Nkulu Yohari, who understood and put into practice the Savior’s call, “Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 19:14).

“How many of you would like to have a ‘perfect day’?” the bishop asked the congregation. Many members raised their hands—some high, some low. A few kept their hands in their laps.
“That’s fine,” the bishop nodded. “Larry,” he asked one of the ward members, “would you like to have a ‘perfect day’? Would you please come up here to the stand? George and Ruth? Paul? Matthew and Joan? John and Helen? Ben and Carol?”
He called their names slowly, pausing briefly between each one. Many hands fell back into their owners’ laps; only a few remained held high.
“Is there a widow who would like to live a ‘perfect day’?” the bishop asked. There was a moment of silence as he looked over the congregation. “Grace, how about you?”
When those whose names he had called had reached the stand, he turned to them. “Which day would you like to be your perfect day? Tuesday? … Thursday?”
The disbelief and the embarrassed smiles on their faces showed that none of them had really expected to have to make a real commitment. Some nodded their heads yes. Others stood motionless. After several seconds, someone suggested Thursday because it would give them more time to prepare.
Smiling, the bishop said, “That’s fine. Thursday you will have a ‘perfect day.’ And since we do not have any speakers planned for sacrament meeting next Sunday, we’d like you to report your ‘perfect day’ to us.”
He turned back to the congregation. “Is there anyone else who would like to have a ‘perfect day’?” James, a teachers quorum member with a happy smile, raised his hand. He was included.
The bishop then told the congregation, “Your responsibility as ward members is to pray that they accomplish their assignment.”
How does one live to make a day perfect? That question passed through the minds of those who had accepted the bishop’s challenge. Throughout the week, whenever ward members got together, the subject of the bishop’s “perfect day” challenge came up. We were eager to hear the reports.
Sunday finally came.
After hearing the reports of those who had accepted the “perfect day” assignment, I asked the bishop why he had issued the challenge.
“I’ve always thought about living a ‘perfect day,’” he said. “But we have so many outside influences and pressures in a regular day that we can seldom focus on the spiritual and idealistic. And we often speak about the impossibility of living a ‘perfect day’ or a perfect life. But I had a strong feeling that the time was right for the ward members to try.
“I think we discovered that we can make things a little more perfect regardless of our circumstances. None of the ward members involved in this assignment had to make an investment in money, but they did have to make an investment in time, and give of themselves.
“Many of us in the ward, not just those who had committed themselves to the challenge, also tried to live a ‘perfect day.’ As a result, we became more aware of the challenges involved in perfecting ourselves and tried harder to live worthy to have the Lord’s Spirit be with us.”
Though the bishop’s “perfect day” challenge did not cause instant changes in our lives, it helped us along the road to perfection—something we all hope to achieve.

He sorrowed over his loss of a newborn child and was given permission to care for a neighbor’s child during the day, then return the baby to her mother at night. An older sister of the baby, Margarette McIntire, later reported:

“One evening he did not come [home] with [the child] at the usual time, and mother went down to the Mansion to see what was the matter, and there sat the Prophet with the baby wrapped up in a little silk quilt. He was trotting it on his knee, and singing to it to get it quiet before starting out.” (Ensign, Jan. 1971, pp. 36–37.)

Our camp near the ice caves at Banff, Alberta, was the scene of my first effort at getting along with guys who couldn’t cook, who argued over who got to light the fire, and who complained more than I did after a long hike. It wasn’t quite like home, but we set up camp and decided on rules to make things run smoothly.
The first night my feet were freezing, and I wanted to climb into my sleeping bag to warm up and go to sleep. I learned a lesson when the patrol leader suggested that a better way would be to do what the group wanted and warm my feet by sitting near the fire for a while instead of going to bed. Another time a fellow hurt his ankle. This meant he had to be carried down to camp. Some of the boys had to stay with him until everyone else finished exploring the caves. We solved the problem of who was to stay, and other similar problems that came up, by the discussion/vote method. “Choose a number from one to one hundred,” the patrol leader would say, and then if you chose the wrong number, you smiled, stayed, and cleaned camp or buried garbage.
Scout camps help fellows become real friends. We learned to help each other, to serve, to give in sometimes, and to abide by the rules of the camp for the benefit of all. If casual friends can get along and have a great time living together by the common consent method, I guess real families ought to be able to, too.

When I was a girl of about ten, one summer afternoon a friend and I took blankets and crackers out into the hayfield behind our Idaho home. The hay, in the middle of the summer, was sweet-smelling, lush, and so tall that when we spread our blankets in the middle of the field, we could sit on our blankets and eat crackers with the hay making a wall around us and hiding us from sight. There we were in a world all of our own.
We liked to pick the dandelions that grew large and abundantly there. We split their stems lengthwise—have any of you ever done that?—and submerged the stems in the water of the irrigation ditch. As we watched, the dandelion stems began to curl from the end. We split the stem a little farther, and each piece curled until the entire stem was a fluff of curly fibers.
It was an afternoon of wonder for us. We were there all alone under that bright, blue, clean, warm sky. It seemed as if God had created this day and dandelion stems especially for us to enjoy. I said to my friend, “Don’t you just feel happy inside?”
My friend looked at me and said, “No, I don’t.”
I was shattered by her blunt, almost emotionless statement. “Why?” I exclaimed.
“Because it won’t last,” she said. “You can be happy for a minute, but not for very long. Life just doesn’t make sense to me.”
I wish that day in the green hayfield that I had been able to help my friend. I knew the plan, but I didn’t know that was what she needed to hear. Life would have made sense to her had she known Heavenly Father’s plan. I hope someone taught her. I wish I had been the one.

One who exemplified charity in his life was President George Albert Smith (1870–1951). Immediately following World War II, the Church had a drive to amass warm clothing to ship to suffering Saints in Europe. Elder Harold B. Lee (1899–1973) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and Elder Marion G. Romney (1897–1988), an Assistant to the Twelve, took President George Albert Smith to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City to view the results. They were impressed by the generous response of the membership of the Church. They watched President Smith observing the workers as they packaged this great volume of donated clothing and shoes. They saw tears running down his face. After a few moments, President Smith removed his own new overcoat and said, “Please ship this also.”

The Brethren said to him, “No, President, no; don’t send that; it’s cold and you need your coat.”

But President Smith would not take it back; and so his coat, with all the others, was sent to Europe, where the nights were long and dark and food and clothing were scarce. Then the shipments arrived. Joy and thanksgiving were expressed aloud, as well as in secret prayer.

On her way home from practice, Jillian saw her friend Mei. They were in the same Primary class. But Mei hadn’t come to Primary for a while.

Jillian smiled at Mei. “Hi, Mei! I’ve missed you at Primary. Are you OK?”

Mei stared down at her shoes. “My mom doesn’t want to go to church.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know.” Mei lifted her head. “Well, I have to go.”

Jillian waved and watched Mei walk away. How can I help Mei? she wondered.

When Jillian got home, she played some Primary songs on her ukulele. Then she invited her brothers to sing along. They sang until Mom called them for dinner.

“I’m going to visit Sister Aurea tomorrow,” Mom said.

“Sister Aurea is Mei’s mom, right?” Jillian asked. “Can I go with you? Mei hasn’t been coming to Primary. And when I saw her today, she seemed kind of sad.”

“Sure, you can come,” Mom said.

“I’ll bring my ukulele! I can play Primary songs. I bet she misses singing them,” said Jillian.

When they got to Mei’s house the next day, Jillian gave Mei a big hug. While their moms talked, the girls went outside. Jillian played her ukulele, and Mei picked the songs. They had fun laughing and singing together until it was time for Jillian to go.

“It was great to see you,” Jillian said. “We’ve missed you in Primary.”

“Yeah, I wish I could come. Maybe I’ll ask my mom again.”

The next Sunday, Mei was at church. Jillian sat beside her. “I’m so happy you could come,” she said.

Mei grinned. “Me too.”

That night as she lay in bed, Jillian thought about Mei and her football team. She was happy to be part of a team, just like she was happy to be part of Primary. They all helped each other. Jillian was glad she could help her friends, whether it was at church or on the field.

When I turned 12, my bishop invited me in for an interview. In that interview he explained to me what the Aaronic Priesthood is. He explained to me my responsibilities in holding the priesthood. I was set apart as deacons quorum president, but I was the only member of that quorum who was active. At that time my great bishop taught me an important lesson on Church service.
One Sunday we were in the chapel for priesthood meeting, and he turned to me and asked, “Where are the other boys? Where are the deacons in your quorum?”
I said, “I’m it. I’m the only one I know of.”
“What are you doing to get to know the members of your quorum?” he said.
I said, “I don’t know what to do.”
And then he sweetly said, “I’ll tell you what to do.”
He then took me with him right after the meeting, and we walked around the neighborhood, visiting each of the young men on the quorum list and inviting them to come back. And several of them did come back after a few visits. Some went on to serve missions, have great families, and become bishops and stake presidents. And it all started with that simple visit from my bishop and me. He paid attention to that special need in our little ward, and I’m really grateful because I learned a lesson that has remained with me.
Through my life I have learned that people are ready to be invited to come back. You have to go and invite them. Even a boy like me, without experience in the priesthood, can do much to help the kingdom grow.
That experience as a deacons quorum president helped me. That bishop was very wise. He had the vision of the future. He entrusted me with that assignment because he knew I was a young man who needed a coach. And he decided to be that coach, so he spent the time to help me and support me by going with me. He helped me understand how good it is to serve in the Church, to do something with your testimony. It was wonderful. I will be eternally grateful for him.

“One day in my early teens a remarkable boy slipped me a coverless edition of English verse with pages torn, worn, and soiled, but it changed my life. This passage was marked: ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’
“So wrote Browning decades before I read it fresh that day and took it personally, appropriate to my season for self-discovery, of hopeful idealism and firming philosophy. And I might never have reached if I’d been stopped by the cover.
“That is the blessing of summer—time enough to read and to know what you’ve read. I’d pick a few Italian plums from our tree and rub off the powdery white until the dark skins glistened red-purple. Then I’d retreat to the capitol slope and read in the cool of sprinkler spray splashing off the trunks, soon oblivious to the ka-chugging sound the rainbird made.
“In my summers I had romped through the Anne of Green Gables series and plowed through a Tarzan book or two just to please my brother. I had discovered the Lloyd C. Douglas books and dreamed of my own magnificent obsession. And I had fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole and climbed Heidi’s Alpine height seven or eight times by the time I learned of heaven’s reach and the truth, once again, about covers.
“Worn leather volumes containing Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Longfellow, and Chaucer were passed into my hands by this boy who understood the grasp-and-reach theory. The public library provided me with ugly, stiff, practical new bindings of Dickens and Robert Louis Stevenson and Emerson’s essay ‘Friendship’ with the library number perforated across random pages. Then came the sharing of a simple maroon book called Larry, named after the remarkable young man whose letters and journal notes to Girl, his girl, were collected therein. We read that, and when he died in the end, almost before he had really lived, we wept.
“I loved all these books unabashedly.
“This boy and I couldn’t understand everything we read, but it was so exhilarating trying to understand that it was like coming in with the tide. Stretching our minds in the reading and then struggling to say it back in our own words to each other kept our relationship going one swift summer and was the basis for a lifelong friendship.”

One example of Chea’s diligence and enthusiasm as a young missionary is recorded in Elder Gooch’s journal: “I was home for lunch, sitting on my hardwood rocking chair, trying to prepare a talk for zone conference. Somehow I just couldn’t get my thoughts gathered. The telephone rang. It was Chea. He told me that he wanted Elder Black and me to visit the Vongs, a Cambodian family that had been in Lowell for a year. They were praying and fasting to find a church they could attend.”

Saveth Vong and her three children, Chetena, Chendra, and Tola, had narrowly escaped execution. Her husband, a pilot in the Cambodian Army, had been captured. Saveth and her children managed to get out of prison three days before they were scheduled to be shot.

Chea smiles as he recalls his and the elder’s first visit to the Vong home. “Everyone seemed so eager to learn. There were many questions. The Spirit was very strong.” Although the Vongs used a Book of Mormon printed in Cambodian, they needed help with gospel principles. Chea played an important role, assisting the elders as he translated discussions and shared his own experiences in the Church. Elder Gooch’s journal entry continues, “Day after day, Chea sat quietly by Saveth helping her understand the things we taught. He never seemed to tire of the message of the gospel.”

Indeed, as Chea taught the gospel his testimony grew. He recalls, “I remember reading 3 Nephi 27:7: ‘Therefore, whatsoever ye shall do, ye shall do it in my name; therefore ye shall call the church in my name; and ye shall call upon the Father in my name that he will bless the church for my sake.’ [3 Ne. 27:7] I thought, how could it be that I’ve never seen this scripture before? It makes so much sense. Heavenly Father’s true church must be named after his Son!”

This scripture also confirmed for Chea what he knew in his heart was true—that if he prayed to Heavenly Father in the name of Jesus and asked for help to share the gospel message, Heavenly Father would bless his efforts.

When the Vongs made the decision to be baptized, Chea was delighted. Elder Gooch recalls that evening, “While we were driving home, Chea asked Elder Black and me to stop by a grove of trees in a nearby park so that we could thank Heavenly Father. We took turns giving thanks and expressing our joy. When we were finished, Chea climbed on my shoulders. After a few quiet moments Chea lovingly looked down, flashed his million dollar smile and said, “The Holy Ghost is with us, Gooch, isn’t it?”

“Yep, Chea, sure is.”

“I know—I felt it!”

The Vongs were baptized a week later.

On day three of our journey, I learned that even though we may have some uphill struggles in our lives, our attitude will determine how we face them. On that day we crossed the Continental Divide three times, rising from an elevation of 4,800 feet to 8,300 feet. Climbing steep mountain passes on a bike requires the right attitude to get to the right altitude. It’s the same with life. By setting worthwhile goals and keeping your eyes fixed on them, you will learn self-discipline and accomplish much. Yes, there were times when climbing the steep mountain grades was as much as I could bear, but I didn’t give up, because I was fixed in my purpose.

Lillie couldn’t wait for the lunch bell to ring. She watched the clock as the hands slowly moved to 12:00. She was supposed to be reading quietly, but she was too excited to concentrate. Lunch was her favorite part of the day—a time to be with her new friends, talking, laughing, and making plans for after school.
Lillie had moved a few months ago, and at first she had felt alone and afraid. The first week in Primary, she met one other girl in her class, but she lived far across town and went to another school. Luckily, on Lillie’s first day of school, she was placed in the same sixth-grade class as Teresa. Teresa was very friendly, and now Lillie was part of a fun group. It was hard being the new girl in school, but Teresa and her friends made Lillie feel welcome.
Finally the bell clanged, and Lillie grabbed her sack lunch from inside her desk. Teresa called, “Wait for me by the door. I have to grab my backpack.”
Lillie saw Jackie coming from a classroom down the hall and waved. “Hey, Lillie,” Jackie called over the noisy chatter. “Are you ready for lunch?”
“I am now,” she said as Teresa came up beside her and linked arms with her. Together they followed Jackie to the lunchroom and found a table where everyone could sit. Lillie sat between Jackie and a boy named Brad and quickly unwrapped her lunch. Brad asked if she had seen the game on TV the night before. Jackie discussed her birthday party coming up the next month. Lillie ate her lunch happily.
After lunch most of the others scattered, but Lillie and her friends pushed back their chairs and continued talking. Brad told funny jokes that made everyone laugh. Jackie described something funny her little sister had done. Lillie wished she had something witty and wonderful to say, too, but nothing came to her mind.
Lunch was almost over. The cafeteria workers began cleaning the tables. Teresa imitated a popular movie star, and everyone laughed. Lillie took a deep breath and decided to do something she had never done before. She took the Lord’s name in vain, giggled, then said, “That was so funny, Teresa!”
Suddenly, the lunchroom fell silent. Lillie felt her face grow red with embarrassment as everyone looked at her. Brad shook his head slowly. “Lillie,” he asked softly, “aren’t you a Mormon?”
“Yeah,” Jackie said, “I thought Mormons didn’t swear.”
Lillie felt sick. She couldn’t say anything. The bell rang, and everyone shuffled back to class. Teresa walked beside Lillie, but she didn’t say a word.
All afternoon Lillie wondered why she had said such a thing. She knew it was wrong. She had never said it before. Her teacher asked her several questions about the day’s lesson, but she shook her head and said she didn’t know. She couldn’t wait for school to end so she could go home and hide under her bed.
After school Lillie told Teresa she had to hurry home. She ran from the building, tears in her eyes and a big lump in her throat. When her mother asked about her day, she was too ashamed to answer and hurried to her room.
How had it happened? She had been eager to impress the others, but she had hurt her spirit instead. She knew she had to ask for forgiveness. If her actions had disappointed her new friends, how much more must they have disappointed Heavenly Father?
That night Lillie couldn’t eat her dinner, and it was hard to look at her parents. Finally her father gently asked what was troubling her. The story spilled out, mixed with bitter tears. “Dad, I am so sorry. I feel terrible,” Lillie cried.
Her father put his arm around her shoulders. “That’s an important part of repentance, Lillie. You truly have to be sorry for what you do—or say.”
Lillie wiped her eyes. “Oh, I am, Dad. I’ll never swear again. Never!”
Her father nodded. “Good. Now go tell Heavenly Father what you just told me, and I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”
As Lillie knelt beside her bed and prayed, she felt her heart would break. She thought of other mistakes she had made and wondered how Heavenly Father and Jesus could continue to love and forgive her. But as she whispered, “I am so sorry,” she felt the peaceful warmth of the Holy Ghost. Finishing her prayer, she was filled with the strength to do one more thing she needed to do.
Lillie shakily dialed Teresa’s phone number. She could barely speak, but she managed to say she was sorry for what she had said at lunch. Then she called Jackie and Brad.
“Do I have to go to school today?” she asked her mother the next morning. She didn’t want to face her friends. What must they think of her?
Her mother hugged her. “Yes. If you don’t, it will be harder tomorrow.”
Teresa found Lillie before school and gave her a quick hug. “I can’t believe you called everyone and said you were sorry. I never could have done that!”
Jackie called from the doorway of her classroom. “Lillie! I have to talk to you about my birthday party, OK? See you at lunch.”
Lillie gave a small sigh of relief and slid into her chair. She never wanted to feel the hurt of a wrong choice again. Even if her friends hadn’t known she was a member of the Church, she would have felt the sting all the same. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and from now on she intended to act like it.

In 2014, while serving a full-time mission, our family experienced an unexpected turn of events. When riding down a steep hill on a longboard, our youngest son fell and sustained a life-threatening injury to his brain. As his situation deteriorated, medical personnel rushed him into emergency surgery.

Our family knelt on the floor of an otherwise empty hospital room, and we poured our hearts out to God. In the midst of this confusing and painful moment, we were filled with our Heavenly Father’s love and peace.

We did not know what the future held or if we would see our son alive again. We did know very clearly that his life was in God’s hands and the results, from an eternal perspective, would work out for his and our good. Through the gift of the Spirit, we were fully prepared to accept any outcome.

It was not easy! The accident resulted in a two-month hospital stay while we were presiding over 400 full-time missionaries. Our son experienced a significant loss of memory. His recovery included long and difficult physical, speech, and occupational therapy sessions. Challenges remain, but over time we have witnessed a miracle.

When I first met Uanci Kivalu, she was smiling broadly. But as she sat down and her tone turned serious, I wondered what this friendly 16-year-old would share. “My story is about the temple,” she said.
Uanci is from Tonga, an island nation filled with towering coconut trees, majestic banana trees, and broad taro plants. Most of the youth I had seen on the island seemed content with life, with smiles as broad as Uanci’s had been only moments before. Tongan youth her age like to dance, sing, play netball, and spend time with their families. They are generally a happy bunch. But Uanci’s seriousness was mixed with a deeper emotion I could not identify, and it surprised me.
“I want to talk about the temple,” she repeated.
“When I was growing up,” Uanci began, “my brothers and sister and I were members of the Church. We would attend church every Sunday with my mom. I loved the temple, and I loved going with the youth to do baptisms for the dead. I would feel the Spirit when we went there. But my dad wouldn’t come to church.”
Uanci’s voice began to quaver. I glanced up from my notepad and saw tears in her eyes.
“One day my little brother ’Alekisio had an injury in his hips that got infected,” she continued. “He got better for a while. And my dad came back to church. But then my dad fell away again.”
The tears were now streaming down Uanci’s face, and the tissue I handed her was immediately soaked, as were her sleeves, as she tried unsuccessfully to dry the tears.
“My little brother got worse, and then he died. He was only 12 years old.”
Uanci paused for a moment, overcome by her feelings, and I began to understand why she had been so serious. This young woman had already felt great tragedy in her life. But there was also a glimmer of hope shining through her eyes.
“Then,” she began again, “my dad finally decided to come back to church. At first, it was hard for him. Our bishop, leaders, relatives, and family encouraged him that the only way our family would be together again—to see my brother again—would be to be sealed in the temple.
“We struggled after my brother died,” Uanci continued. “But my parents worked hard and received their ordinances. Finally, we were sealed in the temple as a family on October 10, 2008, exactly one year after ’Alekisio died. My bishop stood in place of my little brother. It was the most indescribable feeling I ever felt.”
Uanci’s tears were not tears of sorrow but of joy. She and her family had been to the house of the Lord and sealed in the temple, and she knew what that meant. If her family lives worthy of their covenants, they will be together forever.
As I think about Uanci, I imagine her walking across the Liahona campus, the Church-owned high school in Tonga that sits adjacent to the temple. As she walks, Uanci gazes over at the spire of the angel Moroni, its golden form glistening in the sun. There are tears in her eyes again, but she is also smiling, for she knows she will see ’Alekisio again.