Gospel Story Finder

While in Argentina in 1975 at the area conference, President Kimball spoke to a large gathering of youth. Shortly after he began, he set aside his prepared text and shared a personal experience with them. He asked them, “Who gave you your voice?” He then told them about his experience with surgery to save his voice. He explained that the Lord had spared his voice. He said it wasn’t the same voice he had once had. He couldn’t sing as he had previously enjoyed doing but he did have a voice. He said his voice wasn’t a pretty one, but I tell you it was beautiful in what it taught that night. As he spoke the youth responded even before the translator could interpret his words. He told those present, “Serving a mission is like paying tithing; you’re not compelled—you do it because it’s right. We want to go on missions because it’s the Lord’s way. The Savior didn’t say, ‘If it’s convenient, go,’ he said, ‘Go ye into all the world.’” (Mark 16:15.) President Kimball explained that it was the responsibility of young women to help young men remain worthy and to encourage them to go on missions.
As the President concluded his remarks he asked, “Didn’t the Lord give you your voice so you could teach the gospel?” He then testified that he had come to know that his voice and our voices are for the declaring of the gospel of Jesus Christ and for testifying of the truths revealed to the Prophet Joseph Smith. President Kimball teaches us the correct perspective of life.

On May 12, 1846, soon after the first group of Latter-day Saints left Nauvoo, the United States declared war against Mexico. President James K. Polk sent Captain James Allen to recruit five hundred Mormon men to serve in the U.S. Army and march to California to conquer the territory for the United States.
Brigham Young recognized that fulfilling this request would provide some opportunities for the Saints’ trek west. He said that by serving, Mormons could show their loyalty to their country, earn money for their families, and receive free transportation to the West. He also hoped that approval would be given for the Saints to camp on Indian lands. “Let the Mormons be the first [United States soldiers] to set their feet on the soil of California,” President Young said.
After Brigham Young’s reassurance, the men volunteered to serve. They were promised by Church leaders that their families would be cared for, and Brigham Young told them that if they were faithful and kept the commandments, they would not be in any battles.
On July 21, 1846, the 541 men of the Mormon Battalion began their march under the command of newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel James Allen. Thirty-five women and forty-two children, most of whom were families of the soldiers, accompanied the battalion on their journey.
They first marched to Fort Leavenworth (in present-day Kansas), where they were given supplies, guns, and forty-two dollars each for clothing. Every soldier was able to sign his own name on the payroll, which impressed the paymaster—only a third of the previous recruits had been able to do so. Parley P. Pratt collected part of the Mormon soldiers’ pay to help support their families and the poor still in Nauvoo. The money was also used to help Parley P. Pratt, John Taylor, and Orson Hyde on their mission to England.
The Mormon Battalion stayed at Fort Leavenworth for two weeks. The days were extremely hot, and many of the men were ill with fevers. Colonel Allen was gravely ill and did not go with them when they left for Santa Fe. Later, they learned that he had died.
After crossing the Arkansas River on September 16, the new battalion commander, Lieutenant A. J. Smith, sent most of the women and children to the Mexican village of Pueblo (in present-day Colorado) for the winter. The soldiers were upset because they had been promised that their families could travel with them to California. But it was a wise decision because the battalion marched at a rapid pace with little time to rest. Just a month later, a group of sick men and women were also sent to Pueblo.
The weary soldiers trudged into Santa Fe, New Mexico, on October 9, 1846. Colonel Philip St. George Cooke became their new commander, with orders to blaze a wagon trail from Santa Fe to California. The work wore heavily on the battalion, and in November 1846, a third group of fifty-five weakened and tired soldiers turned back for Pueblo.
When the remaining soldiers marched toward Tucson, they were stampeded by a herd of wild bulls. The bulls charged toward them, and the men ran for cover. The stampede was brief, but three soldiers were wounded and several animals were killed, including two battalion mules. The event became known as the Battle of the Bulls—the Mormon Battalion’s only battle!
The soldiers marched peacefully through Tucson, even though a small group of Mexican soldiers was stationed there, then beyond the Colorado River into a hot desert where water could be found only by digging deep wells. They suffered through scorching days and freezing nights. Many had worn out the bottoms of their boots and were walking practically barefoot. Some wrapped rawhide and rags around their feet to protect them from the hot sands.
The end of their 2,030-mile (3266-k) march came on January 29, 1847, when they reached Mission San Diego. Fortunately the Mexicans had already surrendered and the United States had control of California, so the Mormon Battalion helped protect and build up the areas where they served. On July 16, 1847, the men were discharged; eighty-one chose to re-enlist for another six months.
Most of the discharged men planned to join their families in the Salt Lake Valley. But President Brigham Young sent a messenger to them, requesting that the men without families remain in California for the winter. Many of those who stayed behind worked at Sutter’s Fort on the Sacramento River. They were involved in the beginning of the California gold rush. The next summer, however, they left the gold fields to rejoin the Saints.

A few days later, Margarette and her older brother, Wallace, set out for school. It had been raining, and the ground was slippery and muddy, especially along the street by the Prophet Joseph’s Red Brick Store. As the two children hurried along their way, they got stuck in the mud. Although they tried to get out by wrapping their arms beneath their legs to lift their feet, it was no use.
“Oh, what shall we do?” cried Margarette. She remembered seeing wagons stuck in the mud, and sometimes they were left until the ground became drier. Margarette feared that she and her brother would have to stay where they were until the ground dried up and they could walk out on their own.
Wallace let out a loud wail. Seeing her brother’s fear, Margarette joined him with cries of her own. But looking up, she saw the loving friend of children, the Prophet Joseph, walking toward them. He lifted them out of the mud, wiped off their dirty shoes, and used his clean handkerchief to wipe the tears from their faces. He smiled and spoke with such cheery words that they were soon happily on their way to school.
“He is every child’s best friend,” Margarette told Wallace. He smiled in agreement.

Good morning, brothers and sisters. In 1897 a young David O. McKay stood at a door with a tract in his hand. As a missionary in Stirling, Scotland, he had done this many times before. But on that day a very haggard woman opened the door and stood before him. She was poorly dressed and had sunken cheeks and unkempt hair.
She took the tract Elder McKay offered to her and spoke six words that he subsequently would never forget: “Will this buy me any bread?”
This encounter left a lasting impression on the young missionary. He later wrote: “From that moment I had a deeper realization that the Church of Christ should be and is interested in the temporal salvation of man. I walked away from the door feeling that that [woman], with … bitterness in [her heart] toward man and God, [was] in no position to receive the message of the gospel. [She was] in need of temporal help, and there was no organization, so far as I could learn, in Stirling that could give it to [her].”1

A good example of this kind of misrepresentation took place when the subject of the Latter-day Saint pioneers came up in my daughter Sarah’s school classroom a few years ago. One of her classmates said, “My daddy says Mormons are people who live in Utah and worship idols.” Sarah quickly answered back, “Well, I’m a Mormon, and we don’t worship idols.” But many of her classmates never did believe her, largely because they had already accepted the misrepresentation.

In the topsy-turvy world of the emperor of China, everything that is called just and beautiful was declared unjust and ugly and everything that is considered mean and hideous was declared fair and lovely.
One day Prince Ling found a blooming rosebush in a distant nook that had been overlooked, and this led him to the discovery that everything in his father’s kingdom was the reverse of what it should be.

I guess Annabelle and I sort of grew up together. I was eleven years old when she died, just a few months ago. Dad didn’t see her one day when he was backing out of the driveway in our van. And I guess Annabelle didn’t see Dad. Not in time, anyway. Dad felt so bad. It was the first time I’d seen him cry since he bore his testimony last year at church and told about how we joined the Church.
I think we were all thinking about that this morning when we buried Annabelle under the plum tree in our backyard. Mom had wrapped Annabelle in some pretty green material, and we put her in the hole Dad had dug in the soft earth. Then we all sat quietly in a circle around the little open grave and thought about our cat. Dad called it paying our last respects.
Sunlight shined into Annabelle’s little grave through the limbs of the plumb tree. Mom said it was as though Heavenly Father was filling it with light to remind us that He is with us in our saddest moments—maybe especially then.
Dad said that we’d always be indebted to Annabelle for directing us in our own, unknowing way to the gospel of Jesus Christ and that just as that hole was filled with light, so our hearts will be, too, as we try in our own way each day to share His living truths with others.
We put some daisies from Mom’s flower garden on Annabelle’s grave, and I made a little picket fence around it out of sticks.
I know we will have other pets. Maybe a dog. Maybe another cat. Or maybe something else. But I’ll probably remember Annabelle the best—and that night on Temple Square.

As we got back to the hotel after training, Sister Ihesiene started mentioning names of those that need be interviewed urgently as pioneers or past leaders before they depart mortality. One such name mentioned was brother Matthew Anucha, my first branch president and a pioneer member of what now constitutes Okpuala Ngwa Nigeria Stake and part of Osisioma Nigeria Stake. He brought the Church from Mbaise in 1980 to his village, Amapu, and after years of his great missionary efforts, a branch was officially organized in 1982. He became the first member, priesthood holder and branch president indigenous to the Okpuala Ngwa Nigeria Stake. As a branch president, he would travel weekly from his workplace in Mbaise, about 120 kilometers round trip, to preside over his unit until it became a ward years later.
On contacting the current bishop of the ward, Izuchi David, we learned that Brother Anucha died while we were on our first mission. How devastating to hear that a faithful pioneer who had done so much for the Lord and for His Church was without a recording of his photos, voice, quality experiences and testimony! So many questions remain, such as: Was this pioneer and past leader truly honored as the Lord expected? Was there a pioneer activity in which he was recognized at any time? Did he receive any plaque, medal or a letter of appreciation? Were there Church records of key events, such as the first baptisms, confirmations, ordinations, conferences, chapel dedication and apostolic visitations in the unit? Who were the first organizational leaders that served with Brother Anucha as the first branch president of the then Amapu Branch? Was there anything in the unit or stake annual history that captured his great sacrifices? What could we have done to avert this tragedy?
An African proverb says: “when an old person dies, a library burns to the ground” now makes more sense to us. Indeed, our dear pioneers and past leaders represent living libraries whose experiences, photographs, voices and testimonies we should endeavor to create, preserve and share. This is the cardinal mission of Church history—that the succeeding generations may be persuaded to remain on the covenant path as they come to know, in some personal ways, the consecrated lives of the pioneers and how the Lord blesses the Saints.
We are grateful to the Lord for blessing us with an Area Presidency that prioritizes Church history. As we remember and celebrate those who have made great efforts in building the kingdom of God and the establishment of Zion in our area through our active roles in oral and annual histories, the divine sympathies shall be invoked and power from on high to endure to the end becomes more evident to us.
We know by the witness of the Spirit that the Lord cares for all His servants and commands that we keep them in remembrance. With so great an inheritance from our forebears, we can do no less than our very best in living up to our mandate from the Lord by participating actively in Church history efforts before the next library burns to the ground!

Always there are preparations made for rain. Some years it rains so hard that the small individual tents cannot stay up. The previous year everyone had to crowd together under one of the big pavilion tents set up for the crafts and programs. It was the only shelter left standing. But what could have been miserable turned out to be fun.
“I didn’t want it to rain but then again I did. Being crowded together under one big tent was a bond among us last year. We had the same bond this year without the rain.” Tisha Perry

I am a senior in high school, and I am a recovering steady dater.
When I was finally 16, the guy I’d liked for a long time asked me on my first date. I was excited and couldn’t believe he was actually interested in me. One date turned into two, two became three, and before I knew it, we were a couple. I started liking him more and more, and I wanted to spend all my time with him. It started off so magical, almost like a movie—we got along great, understood each other, and never fought. He treated me like a princess.
As we continued to date only each other, my parents became concerned and tried to limit our dating. “But what do they know?” I would think to myself. After all, we had set our own rules and promised not to cross any lines. My parents started wanting to know where I was every second. Eventually I began to lie about who I was with or where I was. “But what is the harm in that?” I would think. “After all, I am being a good influence on my boyfriend; I am encouraging him toward a mission. And I’ve never been happier. If my parents just understood that, then they would allow us to steady date, because we are surely the exception to the rule.”
As we entered the fifth month of our relationship, it seemed like true love. I thought we would continue to date until his mission, and then I would wait for him. It was perfect. However, as we began to talk about our future, our views about his mission didn’t match up, and we decided to take a short break from the relationship.
As word of our “break” spread, news of his problem with the Word of Wisdom reached me. I felt betrayed and was devastated. How could he have been hiding this from me? When I found out the rumors were true, I did the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do: I broke off our relationship permanently.
I am still amazed how hurt and distraught I was over that breakup. I had fallen so hard for my boyfriend that I had actually begun to think I was “in love.” I was hurting inside and tried to find distractions to ease the pain.
One day I was thinking about those five months, and it finally all made sense: “I am not the exception to the rule. No one is the exception to the rule.” Though I had been careful to remain morally clean and had done my best to prepare my boyfriend for a mission, it was still no excuse for my actions. I was still going against what the prophet counsels us to do. No matter how I looked at it from that moment on, I realized I had knowingly gone against the wishes of my parents, teachers, the prophets, and my Heavenly Father. How had I been able to become so distant from my Heavenly Father? How had I allowed myself to tune out the Spirit for so long and become so close to physical temptations?
I began to see every lie that Satan had led me to believe. It terrified me to know that I had let Satan have so much power over me in those five months.
I began to realize other things, including that we are counseled to stay away from steady dating for more than just the purpose of being morally clean. Steady dating brings on emotions, feelings, and pain that our young hearts are not ready to handle. Steady dating can keep us from meeting new people, going on dates with others, and ultimately missing out on bigger opportunities in life. Steady dating can ruin our parents’ trust in us. Steady dating can lead to other sins, such as lying, losing the Holy Ghost, and ultimately jeopardizing our worthiness for a mission and the temple.
I also realized that even if our eternal companion may end up being someone we met in high school, as teens we are not yet emotionally or spiritually prepared for that type of relationship. We are always overestimating our maturity and are in a rush to grow up. But there is really no need to rush when we’re teenagers. We will have all eternity to be with our eternal companion!
I’ve learned that it is dangerous to let yourself believe that you are the exception to any rule. Do not let Satan’s enticing lies talk you out of doing what you know is right.
Do not let yourself be blinded by your feelings. Do not lie to your parents or to yourself about your relationship with another person. Steady dating is simply not worth it.

A few months ago after a meeting with new converts and less-active members, a reactivated gentleman about my age came up to me and said, “I am one who has been less active most of my life. I fell away from the Church early in my life. But I am back now, and I work in the temple with my wife.”

To let him know that everything was OK, my response was something like this: “All is well that ends well.”

He responded, “No, all is not well. I am back in the Church, but I have lost all of my children and my grandchildren. And I am now witnessing the loss of my great-grandchildren—all out of the Church. All is not well.”

As a guest in the home of a choice young family only a few days ago, I was invited to offer prayer as we knelt together at the day’s beginning. Loving parents, who knew of my experience with little girls’ prayers, suggested that their three-year-old would like to pray first, as she regularly insists on doing. The tenderness of the moment increased as a six-year-old brother undertook to help her when she faltered.

The purity and openness of little children in their relationship with the Lord points the way for all of us. If we would seek the Lord, we must put off the “natural man” and become “as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon [us], even as a child doth submit to his father.” (Mosiah 3:19.)

Jennie shivered and drew the patchwork quilt more tightly around herself. She snuggled close to Susan. Outside the wagon, the wind whipped fiercely across the prairie, snapping the white wagon cover above her. Frightened, she wondered if the big wagon could withstand the raging storm. Papa had said the wagon was to be their home on the long journey to the valley of the Great Salt Lake. But suppose the wind shatters this old wagon, she conjectured, then how would Susan, baby Sarah, Mama and Papa, and I get to the valley?
Although the wagon was cold and uncomfortable it did provide substantial shelter from storms, and it was large enough to carry the things that Jennie’s family would need to start their new home in Salt Lake. Besides all of Papa’s tools, there was a heavy iron blade for a plow. Mama, too, had packed many things. Her beautiful dishes were carefully wrapped in bedding and linens to protect them from breaking as the wagon creaked and jolted across the land. She had also packed a sewing box of scissors, thread, and needles. Along with the grain and vegetable seeds there were tiny packets of flower seeds. Lovely flowers blooming in the yard would help make their new house a home. There had been no room to carry furniture, so Mama’s beloved carved vanity had been sold, as had Papa’s dresser and Susan’s bedstead.
Jennie remembered their pleasant home in Nauvoo. It had been hard to leave it, but cruel men had forced them to go. Papa had promised her that someday they would have a new home in the Rocky Mountains where they would all be safe and happy. Now thunder rumbled loudly across the prairie, and the wind moaned through the night. Jennie buried her head in her pillow and wished that the days of happiness and safety would come soon.
“Sister Quigley! Sister Quigley!” It was Brother Olenslager’s urgent voice. The light of his flickering lantern could be seen through the canvas wagon cover. “Are you awake? You must come. My wife is having her baby!”
“Yes, Brother Olenslager, I’m awake and I’ll come at once.”
Jennie heard Mama hastily dressing in the cold darkness of the wagon box. Tonight Papa was gone, for it was his turn to guard the stock. Jennie suddenly realized that she would be alone in the big dark wagon with four-year-old Susan and Baby Sarah.
“Mama?” she whispered.
“Jennie, I must go to help Sister Olenslager. Please watch after the little ones if they wake.”
“Yes, Mama.” Jennie’s throat was dry and she could scarcely speak. How she wanted to cry out, “Don’t go, Mama. I’m frightened!”
“If I’m not back before morning, Jennie, you must get breakfast and prepare to roll at daybreak. The morning bell will signal when it is time to wake up.” Then Mama slipped from the wagon into the sodden night and was on her way to Sister Olenslager.
BOOOOM! A frightening clap of thunder directly overhead split the night, jolting Susan from her slumber. “Mama!” she cried.
“She isn’t here, Susan,” Jennie explained, trying to soothe her frightened sister. “She’s gone to help Sister Olenslager with her baby.”
“I want Mama,” Susan began to cry. “I’m scared.”
Jennie hugged her younger sister and said softly, “Don’t be afraid. Everything will be all right. I’m here with you. It’s just that this noisy storm woke you up! Go back to sleep now.”
Jennie held the trembling little girl in her arms, concealing the terror that she herself felt. Unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks and onto Susan’s blonde hair. Oh, if only Papa were here! she wished. He always laughs at storms. Jennie believed that Papa’s booming laugh was louder than thunder and his muscled arms stronger than a fierce wind.
“Shhh …” Jennie whispered. “Be still, Susan.” But the little one, shivering beneath the patchwork quilt, was not easily quieted. Soon her sobs woke Baby Sarah, who began to fuss and whimper.
All the while the storm grew wilder, and the rain beat unceasingly against the canvas. Lightening crackled, brilliant and white, and thunder boomed and echoed across the sky. A cold knot of terror tightened in Jennie’s stomach. She could no longer bring herself to speak to her sisters or to comfort them. Mama had told her to tend the little ones, yet she, herself, was frightened. Oh, what can I do? she wondered pleadingly.
Then Jennie remembered something Papa had told her before they had left their home in Nauvoo. He said that there would be times in her life when she might be lonely or frightened and that during those times she might have to do things that she felt she could not do all by herself. But even though he and Mama might not be close-by, she need never be alone. He explained that Heavenly Father was anxious to help her in times of need. He was eager to comfort her when she was fearful, and happy to be near her when she was lonely. All she need do was pray and ask for His help and her prayers would be answered.
Swallowing her fear, Jennie sat up and knelt beside her two sisters. Then she prayed with all her heart for Heavenly Father to bless her and Susan and Sarah and be with them during the storm. When she had finished praying, she crawled back under the covers.
Soon both Susan and Sarah were sleeping soundly next to her. As she lay beside them Jennie felt the cold fear drain from her own heart, to be replaced by a warm calm. And weary from listening to the roaring of thunder, she, too, fell into a peaceful sleep.

Even though Father was deaf, he understood his daughter Alice. She pronounced her words carefully and looked right at him so he could read her lips easily. So Father kept her with him whenever he could. When he was doing business, she helped him understand what other people said. When he was working on the farm, Alice was good company.
Alice and Father tended grapevines and peach orchards, harvested honey from beehives, and cut ice from the pond. Alice gathered eggs from their chickens. Whatever they cut or gathered or harvested, Father and Alice took one-tenth to the tithing office.
They didn’t pay their tithing with money, most of the time. If they harvested thirty bushels of peaches, three bushels went to the Church. If ten jars of honey came from the beehives, one jar went for tithing. It was the same with grapes and eggs and whatever else they had. Even chickens and cows sometimes went along to the tithing office in the farm wagon!
One Monday morning early in the summer, Alice and Father were mending a fence where the farm bordered the roadside. Alice heard the thudding sound of horses’ hooves on the dirt road and the rumbling of a farm wagon. She looked up and saw Brother Johnson driving with children in the back. Father looked up too.
“Good morning, Brother Ashdown!” Brother Johnson called. “My peas are ready for harvest. I’m paying the children twenty-five cents a bushel to pick them. Does Alice want to come?”
Father looked down at Alice.
“He wants me to pick peas for a quarter a bushel,” Alice repeated. “May I go?”
Father nodded. Alice climbed into Brother Johnson’s wagon. Father waved and smiled as she rode away.
Alice worked hard all day long and picked two full bushels of peas. Before she left at the end of the day, Brother Johnson dropped two shiny quarters into her hand. Fifty cents could easily buy enough candy to last a month, or ribbons in every color of the rainbow for Alice’s hair, or maybe even a toy! She ran all the way home and bounded into the kitchen where the family was just sitting down around the table for supper.
“Look!” she said. “Fifty cents of my very own!”
“Those are good earnings for a day, Alice, for a girl your size,” Mother said. “Now please wash up before you sit down and eat.” Alice obeyed, then settled in for a plate of stew, new potatoes, and sweet green peas from the family’s garden.
“I’m pleased you’re a hard worker, Alice,” Father said from across the table. “Do you want to pay your tithing on that money?”
Alice nodded yes.
“You’ll owe five cents tithing then. Should I give you change?”
Alice looked at the two coins next to her plate. Five cents less and she wouldn’t have two quarters anymore—only one quarter and two dimes. Five cents suddenly seemed like a lot of money.
“Maybe you’ll make some more money in a day or two,” Father said. “I believe Doctor Stringham has a field of peas that needs picking.”
“Think about it overnight, Alice,” Mother suggested. “You need to decide if you want to pay tithing.”
Lying in bed that night, Alice tossed and turned. She wanted to do the right thing. But it seemed so hard to let go of five whole cents. She thought about her last trip to the tithing office with Father. On their way home, Alice and Father had met a man Father knew, Mr. Singer, who wasn’t a member of the Church.
“Alice, ask your father for me where he’s been today,” Mr. Singer instructed. Alice did.
“We’ve been down to the tithing office,” Father said.
“Well, William,” Mr. Singer said, “you’re surely devoted to that Church. I’m always amazed to see you going by my place on your way to meeting every Sunday. Especially when you can’t even hear what’s being said.”
Alice gulped and repeated Mr. Singer’s words slowly to Father. She worried that his feelings would be hurt, but she knew it was important to let him know exactly what was being said.
Father straightened his back and looked hard at Mr. Singer. “Well, I do sometimes understand what’s said, but even if I don’t, I get the spirit of the meeting by being there. And I teach my children that we’re a Latter-day Saint family that goes to our meetings every Sunday. Same with taking Alice down to the tithing office. You have to teach children by example.”
Mr. Singer nodded. “You’re a good man, William Ashdown,” he said. “You take care now!”
As Alice lay in bed and remembered what Father had told Mr. Singer, she thought about all the other times she’d gone to the tithing office with Father. She always felt warm inside when she heard him say, “That’s a full tithe.” She knew it was one way he showed how much he believed in the gospel. She remembered Mother telling her that if they paid tithing, the Lord would open the windows of heaven and send down more blessings than they had room to receive. She thought about how the grapes and peaches and eggs all went to help people who needed food. And she knew her own five cents would help someone too.
Alice crept out of bed quietly and made her way downstairs where Father and Mother were sitting.
“Father, I want to pay my tithing. Will you figure the change for me?” Alice asked.
“I certainly will, Alice,” Father said.
Alice traded Father one quarter for two dimes and a nickel. She put the nickel in the pocket of her pinafore that she would wear on Sunday so she could give it to the bishop. But before then, she picked peas for Doctor Stringham. Alice earned forty-five more cents to keep—and another nickel for her tithing!

Later in my youth, my brother and I slept in an unheated bedroom in the winter. People thought that was good for you. Before falling into a warm bed, we knelt to say our prayers. There were expressions of simple gratitude. They concluded in the name of Jesus. The distinctive title of Christ was not used very much when we prayed in those days.

I recall jumping into my bed after I had said amen, pulling the covers up around my neck, and thinking of what I had just done in speaking to my Father in Heaven in the name of His Son. I did not have great knowledge of the gospel. But there was some kind of lingering peace and security in communing with the heavens in and through the Lord Jesus.

Although some of the most exciting Christmas gifts come in a physical form, the best gift I ever received came through an act of service. My family has the tradition of delivering food boxes to the needy during the holiday season. Most of the encounters that my family has had are valuable experiences, but one in particular will remain with me.
Carrying a food box and gifts, my family approached a small, run-down apartment and knocked on the door. We were greeted by a lady who spoke only Spanish. Immediately after she opened the door, my family began singing “Silent Night.” Not long into the song, she broke into tears out of gratefulness. All she could say was “Gracias, gracias” repeatedly as she embraced us.
Although her language and background were entirely different from ours, we immediately felt a connection. She was grateful for our offer of help, and I understood what it meant to truly be thankful for even the simplest necessities. I walked out of the apartment with a whole new outlook, realizing that we owe the Lord our gratitude for even our most basic needs.
—Rhett Wilkinson

“Oh no, not again,” I thought, as I saw the familiar face walking toward me in the hallway of my college dorm. “What this time?”
Angela [names have been changed] had accosted me in the hallway before, and each time I talked to her she left my stomach tied up in knots. I had been investigating The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for a month, and Angela had taken it upon herself to prove that I was making a big mistake.
Angela invited me to her dorm room for a talk, and I accepted warily, knowing from past experience that she would not leave me alone until I’d heard what she had to say.
“How are you feeling about the Mormons at this point?” she asked me, as I sat on her bed, folding my arms defensively.
“Fine. Actually I think what they believe is quite beautiful. I haven’t decided if I believe it yet …”
“Beautiful?” Angela choked on the word, her face turning red. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go on. Not after what I’ve found out about the Mormon religion.”
She handed me a pamphlet filled with lies and twisted truths about the Church. “Read this,” she confided, “and you’ll never want to talk to those missionaries again.”
I read it and the other things well-meaning people gave me to try to show me “the truth” about the Church. I always ended up feeling confused and sick to my stomach. How could I ever know what was right? The missionaries seemed so peaceful about what they believed. Yet Angela was convinced they were wrong. How could I find my own testimony of what was true? And why did there seem to be silence from the heavens when I prayed about my questions?
I believed the missionaries instead of the clever words of those who opposed the Church. Then I acted upon that belief. I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When I rose up out of the waters of baptism, a warm feeling of peace enveloped me. I knew the Holy Ghost was telling me that what I was doing was good. I had found the truth. Even though I faced much opposition from my parents and friends, I was able to stand strong because of the testimony I had received from obeying the commandments of God.

I’ve been a loyal reader of the New Era for some time and have always intended to write and say thanks and to send subscriptions to friends who are starved for such delicious spiritual food. However, the procrastination bug seemed to prevent me. Now I have even more to be thankful for. I finally sent a subscription to my dearest friend. I was really apprehensive about sending it to her because I didn’t know what she would think. Being almost 10,000 miles away from someone makes it a bit hard. But after waiting anxiously, I received a letter that said this: “I received the May issue of the New Era, and I read the whole thing in about two hours. I love it! It’s so down to earth, personal, and real. You’ve really shed some light on my life through that magazine. I’m eagerly looking forward to the next issues.”
Can you imagine my excitement to read that from a daughter of God who probably doesn’t even realize who she is? This magazine has helped shed light and love on my life in many ways.
Kathleen PaynterSpeers Point, New South Wales Australia

I know how real the hooks of mortality can be. One Sunday, as a new convert, I was teaching a priesthood class when an unsettling conversation arose. I struggled to finish my lesson. I took offense and felt that I was the victim. Without saying a word, I headed for the exit with the idea that I would not return to church for a while.
At that very moment, a concerned priesthood holder stood in front of me. He lovingly invited me to focus on Christ and not on the situation we had experienced in class. As I looked back on the experience with him, he shared with me that he heard a voice tell him, “Go after him; he is important to me.”
My dear friends, we are all important to Him. President Nelson taught that “because of our covenant with God, He will never tire in His efforts to help us, and we will never exhaust His merciful patience with us.” Our divine nature and covenant relationship with God entitle us to receive divine help.

After I returned to Samoa, I spoke at a YSA devotional about health. Following the conference, a woman walked up to me to shake my hand and tell me she liked my talk. Lagimanofia had just returned from her mission. From the moment I met her, I felt that she completed me. I had been praying to find someone who could be a companion and who would love and accept me.
As Lagimanofia and I started dating, she cared for me and accepted me, and her family was supportive. We married, and our lives changed forever when we adopted Posenai Jr. God prepared us to adopt him. Having him in our lives has made us very happy.