Gospel Story Finder

Outside, the typhoon was raging. But inside, there was a calm, peaceful spirit.
Gathered in their small Philippine home in December 1987, the Paronda family was kneeling in prayer. Brother Ruben Paronda, normally soft-spoken, had to raise his voice almost to a shout as he prayed. Even so, his wife, Nelly, and their children had to strain to hear his words above the pounding rain and the relentless howling of the wind. The prayer was filled with pleadings to the Lord to calm the storm.
The town of Tigaon, Camarines Sur, Philippines, is in the typhoon belt—and the Paronda family has seen many storms. But this time they were more desperate than ever for the storm to stop. It was keeping them from traveling to Manila to be sealed in the temple. And this was the second time their temple trip was being threatened.
Eleven months after the jeepney accident, they had finally saved enough money again to make the trip. Then the typhoon hit! Their home and store were spared, but their crops were destroyed. Streets were flooded, and travel was impossible.
Surrounded by chaos, they still felt that their most urgent need was to get to the temple immediately. “We were in a hurry to be sealed,” explains Brother Paronda. Unfortunately, in only two or three days the temple would close for several weeks.
Finally, during the night at the height of the storm, the family knelt in prayer. “We asked the Lord to stop the storm so we could go,” says Brother Paronda. “Heavenly Father answered our prayer. The storm stopped during the night, and we had good weather for our journey.”
The next day, they rented a jeepney (their own was still not in running condition), and Brother and Sister Paronda and the eight children crowded inside for the fifteen-hour trip. After driving through the night, they arrived at the temple the day before it was to close. Immediately they changed into white clothes, and everyone who was old enough (father, mother, and six children) received the temple endowment.
Then the parents were sealed to each other, and the children were sealed to them—including their son Alan who had died twelve years earlier as an eight-month-old baby. “Even though Alan isn’t living with us at this time,” says Marilyn, “we know that someday we will be together again. He is still a part of our family.”
“I am so grateful,” says Sister Nelly Paronda, “that my whole family can now be together forever.”
When they left the temple that day, it was late. And they had had no rest from their journey. “But we did not feel tired or hungry,” says Marilyn. “We felt very happy that the Lord had answered our prayers.”
The following day, they attended the temple again. Later, the oldest son, Noel, was sealed in the temple with his wife and children. And family members have returned to do ordinance work for grandparents and great-grandparents.

On the second night of my stake’s Young Women camp, we had a big rainstorm and tornado. My ward had about 24 young women attending the camp with two leaders, and we all had to fit into one small cabin for protection. The rain was falling hard, and the wind was getting worse. I had to continually remind myself of the prayer for safety our stake president had offered earlier. Our ward also said our own group prayer in our cabin, and I said my own personal prayers.
A lot of girls were scared, and it was easy to see why. Our cabin was not very sturdy, and we were right by a river. In about 20 minutes the storm got so bad that the whole stake had to run from their ward cabins to the counselors’ cabins, which were on higher ground. My stake president said another prayer, and we sang hymns, Primary songs, and camp songs in an attempt to comfort ourselves. Yes, we were scared, but we felt that everything would be all right. Half an hour later it was OK to go back to our ward cabins.
We later found out what had happened to the tornado that night. It had split into two storms. One of them went around us to the right and the other to the left. What we got wasn’t even the worst of it!
I know that God heard our prayers that night and that He protected us from the worst of the storm. Why would a tornado split unless God needed it to? I know that in the storms of life, we can always pray to Heavenly Father and He will hear and answer us, giving us the courage and protection we need to make it safely through.

They are the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of 95-year-old Arthur W. Andersen and his wife Clara, from Provo, Utah. They all began coming to the library in 1972 when Arthur’s oldest daughter, Lyona, had what she considered an inspired idea. For years Lyona had taken upon herself the responsibility for continuing genealogical research for the Andersen family. She had obtained funds from family members (all 15 of Arthur’s children) and had hired professional researchers to help her carry on the work.
One day the thought came to her, “Why not organize things so that all the young cousins in the area can join in and assist us in this important work?” She approached her researcher specializing in English records, Wilma Adkins, and asked if she would be willing to delegate work and supervise all the youth in doing research. Wilma willingly agreed, and since that time the Andersen family has held monthly workshops.
These workshops give many teenagers and adults in the family the opportunity to actually do firsthand research in the Salt Lake Genealogical Library. They have become familiar with how to operate the microfilm machines and how to track down the various microfilms they need. They have struggled over the elaborate and often foreign-looking handwriting contained in these records. And perhaps most important of all, they have felt the joy that comes from discovering a name that others have hunted for for hours, weeks, and sometimes even years.
Lyona recalls an incident with a young cousin, not yet in his teens, who was faithfully poring over census records for a name Wilma had given him. All of a sudden he jumped up and ran to Aunt Lyona, excitement mirrored in his face. “Come look,” he said. “Is this really the name I was looking for?” Lyona quickly conferred with Wilma. It was the very name Wilma had unsuccessfully been seeking for a long time.
Many hugs and congratulations followed, as Wilma and Lyona took special pains to praise and thank him for his unexpected discovery.
Other researchers in the library on these Saturdays, if they took the time to eavesdrop, would hear such boastful comments as, “Hey, Nina, just think! Because of me, John and Mary Stafford can get married in the temple and be sealed for all eternity! What if I hadn’t come today and had gone swimming instead?” Or, “Wilma told me I can read that awful handwriting as well as the people who work here!”
Since 1972, 70 members of the Andersen family have participated at one time or another in these genealogy workshops. Ages range from eight years to 95, the majority in their teens. The 95-year-old helper is Grandpa Andersen himself. Although he can’t actually search (because of failing eyesight), he often shows up, nonetheless, with his wife Clara. Their enthusiastic spirits and encouraging words make their presence as valuable as though they were doing the research themselves. Their grandchildren know how important they consider this work and how pleased they are with each person’s effort.
Through these Saturday workshops, the Andersen family has truly taken seriously the admonitions to do genealogical research. And they are busily engaged in turning “the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers.” (Mal. 4:6.)

Then I began dating Kelly, a friend who was not a member of the Church. I related to her my plans to serve a mission. Kelly saw that I had changed and wondered why. This led to Kelly’s having the missionary lessons and joining the Church, and I had the opportunity to baptize and confirm her. At this point I wondered if that missionary effort had fulfilled my service to the Lord. I wrestled with having to go, and I was determined to pray to find out if leaving Kelly and serving a mission was the right thing to do.
I chose a place in the hills on the moors called Saddleworth Dovestones, where I would not be disturbed. I took my lunch, scriptures, and my journal and headed out, climbing to the top to offer the desires of my heart to my Father in Heaven. As I prayed, I listened very carefully for an answer, maybe a peaceful feeling or a burning in my bosom, but I felt nothing.
As I walked back, I noticed a series of rocks on the ground carefully placed to spell out the words “Truth Will Prevail.” “Curious,” I thought, but nothing more. However, when I told my mother, she said simply, “That’s your answer.”
Trusting the Lord, I turned in my mission papers. On my 21st birthday, along with my birthday post, came my call to serve in the England London South Mission. Due to my years of inactivity, I still felt weak and inadequate. Only later would I understand what that early missionary understood: the Lord may choose the weak things of this world to preach His gospel, but truth will prevail and will prosper.

A few years after I had been baptized, becoming better acquainted with some duties in the Church, I was ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. My father, who had baptized me, had died in the meantime with a heart attack, so the bishop conferred the Aaronic Priesthood upon me and ordained me to the office of a deacon. I remember that I had a wonderful feeling about that as he conferred the priesthood upon me, that I now had responsibilities and would be accountable for my actions and would have things to learn to do as I would progress through life. I did have a special feeling that I now was a little different, that I wouldn’t be exactly the same as friends who did not hold the priesthood or people that you would meet out in the world. I now had some responsibilities, things we would learn on Sundays in church as we would sit around the old coal stove down in the basement of the meetinghouse.

On Saturdays, we would clean out the church, fill the coal buckets with coal, and see that the building was ready for Sunday meetings. We had things to do in the lesser priesthood, in all the temporal affairs of the ward—collecting fast offerings and doing duties for the bishop. He and other leaders would teach us about the Aaronic Priesthood and the office of a deacon, then a teacher, and then, of course, a priest as we would advance in the priesthood. It seemed to me that I was developing an interesting understanding, a vision of the work to be done, and that I personally had some responsibility, even though I was just a young boy in a little country town. There was something very important about it.

My dad was stationed in Okinawa, Japan, so I was supposed to be baptized in the East China Sea. I was really sick on that Saturday in 1996, so the baptism was rescheduled for Sunday. On Sunday morning, I was still sick and throwing up, and to make it worse, it was raining. My mom said we were going to do it anyway, so we all prayed for the rain to stop and for me to feel better. After church, we went home for my baptismal clothes, then drove to Toguchi Beach. By the time we got there, the rain had stopped and I felt better.
The bad thing then was that the tide had gone out. My dad and I walked out to a little tide pool (see photo), and he stood on my toes (to keep them in the water) when he baptized me. My Grandma and Grandpa Taylor were there from the United States to see my baptism. After I was pretty dry, Grandpa confirmed me, and I was a true member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I know that Heavenly Father helped me feel better and helped the rain to stop for my baptism. I got sick again on the way home, and it started to rain again. I hope that all of you who haven’t been baptized will be baptized and receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Thomas Taylor, age 11Drummond, Oklahoma

In April 2009 former Presiding Bishopric counselor Richard C. Edgley told the story of an exemplary quorum that mobilized to assist a fellow member who had lost his job:
“Phil’s Auto of Centerville, Utah, is a testament of what priesthood leadership and a quorum can accomplish. Phil was a member of an elders quorum and worked as a mechanic at a local automobile repair shop. Unfortunately, the repair shop where Phil worked experienced economic trouble and had to let Phil go from his job. He was devastated by this turn of events.
“On hearing about Phil’s job loss, his bishop, Leon Olsen, and his elders quorum presidency prayerfully considered ways they could help Phil get back on his feet. After all, he was a fellow quorum member, a brother, and he needed help. They concluded that Phil had the skills to run his own business. One of the quorum members offered that he had an old barn that perhaps could be used as a repair shop. Other quorum members could help gather needed tools and supplies to equip the new shop. Almost everyone in the quorum could at least help clean the old barn.
“They shared their ideas with Phil; then they shared their plan with the members of their quorum. The barn was cleaned and renovated, the tools gathered, and all was put in order. Phil’s Auto was a success and eventually moved to better and more permanent quarters—all because his quorum brothers offered help in a time of crisis.”8

My dad was a designer. I loved watching him work. He taught me how to draw and how to use layout programs on the computer. (“Layout” means the way words and pictures are arranged on a page.) I liked creating things so much that I practiced on my own after school. Then, when I went to college, I took classes like art, computer design, and layout to help me be a good graphic designer.
I create advertisements and websites. I work with other creative people who like doing the same things I like to do. We share ideas and listen to music all day while we work.

My husband and I had a hard time getting married in the temple—and not because we didn’t want to! There were many things that kept preventing us from making this sacred covenant.
But through this journey of hardship, growth, and love, I have gained a greater testimony of the temple and the blessings that sacred place can bring into our lives.
Things were hard soon after we got engaged. For a while, a lot of unfortunate circumstances prevented us from moving forward to marriage in the temple. So after what seemed like forever, we finally set our endowment and sealing dates for May 2020. Almost everything was planned out. This was finally the time!
But then the world was hit by the COVID-19 pandemic, and our country, South Africa, went into full lockdown.
Once again, the temple and our marriage were postponed.
I started to think I wouldn’t ever be able to enter the temple. And I wondered if it was even worth all the effort. My husband and I still hadn’t even received our endowments, and I felt discouraged because after preparing for most of my life to be worthy to go, things still weren’t working out.
But I thought of everything that prophets had taught about the importance of attending the temple and the many blessings we receive when we make covenants with the Lord. President Russell M. Nelson taught that “the supreme benefits of membership in the Church can only be realized through the exalting ordinances of the temple.”1
So I was still determined to go when the time was right.
Over the next few months, my husband and I fasted, prayed, and exercised faith that we would remain worthy and be able to get married in the temple. And miraculously, in September 2020, the Johannesburg South Africa Temple had a limited opening that allowed my husband and me to receive our endowments.
Words can’t express how much closer I felt to Heavenly Father and the Savior inside the walls of the temple. It was a spiritually intimate moment that I will never forget. And it was worth the wait.
Soon after, my husband and I were finally able to get sealed for time and all eternity in the Lord’s house.
Our sealing day was so sacred. We were the only couple in the temple at the time, making that eternal covenant to each other and the Lord. I was beyond happy. I felt as if the Savior were sitting beside both of us, saying, “I’m pleased with your faith—you finally made it!”
And we are excited to start a new journey together, in which we can return to the temple again and again.

A knowing smile touched his lips. “I bet you’re a Latter-day Saint, aren’t you?” His question sounded like a compliment! “You’re just like Andy Frazier!” He glanced across the parking lot with a far-off look in his eyes. “Andy and I were in the Marines together. The first time I met him was a Sunday morning. We talked and hit it right off. I asked him if he wanted to drive into town and catch a movie. He turned me down. He said that he was headed for church. That’s when I found out that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Mr. Santos turned back to me. “We became good friends. He didn’t drink anything stronger than orange soda. He didn’t cuss. He didn’t smoke.” Mr. Santos smiled at me. “But there were a lot of things he did do. Nobody worked harder than Andy Frazier. And he could shoot!” Mr. Santos wagged his head. “Nobody in the whole battalion could shoot like him. I don’t think there was a better member of the entire Marine Corp. At first some of the guys kidded him about his religion, but he didn’t let it get to him.
“One day we were on parade, marching around the parade field. When we marched, we sang out different cadences. Some of them are pretty funny. Some of them are …” He paused and shook his head. “Well, some of them have some pretty bad words in them. They aren’t the approved cadences, but at times we used them. Well, Andy had complained to the sergeant a number of times, but he just said that Andy needed to toughen up a bit.
“One day we were using a cadence that was downright dirty. Andy broke ranks and headed right to the major, who was off to the side of the field. When I saw him go, I thought, Andy, you’re one dead duck. You’re going to get booted right out of the Marines.”
Mr. Santos smiled at the memory. “He didn’t get thrown out. He saluted the Major and told him that he was a Marine and proud of it but that he had been taught not to use filthy language and didn’t expect to have to use it or listen to it to be a good Marine.” Mr. Santos smiled again. “The major told the sergeant that from then on Andy was to choose the marching cadence. Now that took courage! I’ll never forget Andy Frazier. I think you’re like him.”

Living in the deserts of Saudi Arabia are tribes of nomads called Bedouins. These people live in tents made of goat’s hair or wool, and they survive by keeping herds of sheep, goats, and camels. In one of these Bedouin tribes there once lived a very rich man. His name was Sheikh Bushnir, and he was the chief of his tribe.
One day Sheikh Bushnir became so ill with a fever that he thought he might die. It was true that he had a son to live on after him, but Ahmed, his son, was not a good man. He never tended the sheep or milked the goats, he was very greedy, and he was always spending his father’s money foolishly.
Even so, Sheikh Bushnir loved his son very much. One day the sheikh called his son to his bedside. “Ahmed,” he said weakly, “I am about to pass into the next life.”
Listening intently to his father’s words, Ahmed began to cry. Even though he was not a good man, he loved his father.
“Do not cry, my son,” said Sheikh Bushnir kindly. “All men—no matter how rich or great they are—must die. Now listen to what I have to say. Before I die, I want to give you a most wonderful gift.”
Ahmed wiped away his tears and moved closer to his father. “A gift?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered his father. “A most wonderful gift, a gift to be cherished above all others.”
“Is it worth more than a herd of camels?” asked Ahmed, his concern for his father replaced by his greed.
“It is worth much more than a herd of camels,” said his father.
“Is it worth more than gold or jewels?” asked Ahmed.
“More than even gold or jewels, my son. But the gift lies at the end of a long journey.”
Slowly Ahmed’s father spread out a map on the bed. The map was very wrinkled from having been folded and unfolded many times. “Here is where it is,” said Ahmed’s father as he pointed to a dark, round spot on the map.
“But that is in the middle of the Rub’ al Khali (Empty Quarter)!” gasped Ahmed.
“Yes,” said his father. “That is where the gift is buried.”
Ahmed looked sad as his father folded up the map. The Rub’ al Khali was a great desert where no one lived. Even for a Bedouin who was used to the hot desert, it would be a dangerous trip.
“Do you want the gift enough to risk your life for it?” asked his father.
Ahmed was silent for a long time. Finally his greed overcame his prudence. “Yes!” he cried. “For such a wonderful gift I will make the journey, no matter how dangerous it is.”
“Good,” said the sheikh. “You must leave at once. My mind will not rest until I know that you have made the journey and returned safely.”
“I shall do as you say,” said Ahmed, and he dashed from his father’s tent to make preparations.
The next morning Ahmed said good-bye to his father. Then he climbed onto his camel and set out alone into the desert. He knew that it would be safer to travel with one of the other young men from his tribe, but he did not want to share the wonderful gift with anyone.
The map outlined mile after mile of desert, but it revealed nothing about the burning sun and the hot desert winds. Whenever Ahmed thought of turning back, though, he remembered the wonderful gift waiting ahead, and his journey did not seem quite so harsh.
For three days Ahmed pushed deeper and deeper into the desert. His water was running low. He had been so anxious to leave that he had not planned well for the journey. Soon only one of his two goatskin bags of water remained. In the desert heat even a camel needs some water. But because Ahmed thought only of himself, he gave none of the water to his mount. That night while Ahmed slept, the camel ran off in search of water.
The next morning Ahmed realized that he should have shared the water with the camel. With the water that was left, Ahmed thought he might be able to make it back to the camp of a traveling caravan he had seen. However, his greed was too strong to allow him to go back without the gift, so he foolishly continued his journey on foot.
By the end of the fourth day Ahmed had used the rest of his water. He had only one wish: to see the wonderful gift before he died.
By the morning of the fifth day Ahmed was so weak that he could only crawl across the burning sand. Huge red blisters covered his hands and feet and knees. His eyes were almost swollen shut from the relentless pelting of the blowing sand. His lips were cracked and bleeding. Finally, when he thought he could go no farther, he came upon a small circle of stones. According to the map, this was where the gift lay buried!
Ahmed became frustrated as he scratched and clawed at the earth. Each time he pulled a handful of sand from the hole he was digging, more sand poured down from the sides. For hours he worked under the blistering sun. Finally Ahmed’s fingers touched a hard surface. He brushed the sand away and discovered a wooden chest. With his remaining strength, he tugged and pulled the chest from the hole.
Ahmed stared at the chest he had traveled so far to find. He was about to receive the most wonderful gift in the world, and he would not be able to enjoy it. As he fumbled with the latch on the chest, he thought, At least I can look at the gift I’ve given my life to find.
Ahmed began to cry when he saw what was in the chest. There were no jewels or golden coins. But there was something much more wonderful—three goatskin bags filled with water!
With gratitude and joy, Ahmed unstoppered one of the bags and brought it to his lips. Never before had water tasted so good. Never before had life seemed so sweet.
When he finished drinking, Ahmed looked more closely at the chest. Under one of the remaining goatskin bags was a note. He quickly opened it and read:
My Beloved Son,
I hope you are not disappointed by what you have found in the chest. I sent my men ahead of you to bury the priceless water. I knew that when I told you about the “wonderful gift,” you would rush foolishly into the desert. I also knew that because of your greed, you would give no thought for your life. That is why I buried water, not gold.
I did not lie to you, my son, when I told you of the wonderful gift. For the water in this chest has probably saved your life. And life, my son, is the most wonderful gift a man can receive.
Go now, Ahmed, with your gift of life and spend it as you like. Prize it above all other things, and you shall never be poor.
Love,
Your father
Ahmed carefully folded up the note and wiped the tears from his eyes. Feeling stronger, he tied the three goatskin bags together and tossed them over his shoulder.
Slowly Ahmed stood. He looked at the wooden chest one last time and smiled. Never again would he risk his life for gold or jewels. He would cherish his life and use it wisely. Yes, he had come a long way to find a gift that had always been his. But surely he was a richer man returning home than when he had left.

It was Christmastime, and the three young Rogers girls, LeOla, Ruby, and Alice, were excited. Not because of any special gift they were expecting to receive, but because of the one gift they were planning to give.
Christmastime was always exciting in Snowflake, Arizona, but this year needed some extra cheer. Grandma Rogers had died a short time earlier, and Grandpa Locy—we all called Grandpa Rogers by his middle name—was sad and lonely.
A kind and gentle man, he loved every child in the town, and they loved him in return. He always had an encouraging word to give, or a piece of candy to share with any child who asked for one. In fact, he was affectionately known as “Candy Man.” Whenever the neighborhood children saw him, they ran to him. He was always cheerful—until this year, anyway.
Grandpa’s sadness settled on everyone. Something had to be done! How could anyone be cheerful when Grandpa Locy was so unhappy? A family council was called. For several nights the girls and their parents discussed the problem. Finally they came up with an exciting plan.
“Let’s not have any gifts this year!” LeOla exclaimed. “Instead, let’s give something extra special to Grandpa to make him happy.”
“What if we helped him do something nice for the children in town with the money we save?” Ruby suggested. “We could make a Santa suit for him, and on Christmas Eve, he could pass out the candy and toys we’ll buy for him to give to the children.”
Alice, the youngest of the three girls, added, “I want to help pick out all the toys and candy!”
LeOla, Ruby, and Alice spent the next few days poring over the Sears and Roebuck catalog, ordering lots of candy, and sorting through every small toy that the children might enjoy. They made one list for the girls and another for the boys. Their mother’s job was to make the Santa suit for Grandpa. She was an excellent seamstress, and it was soon ready. Father’s part was to put an ad in the Snowflake Herald: “Attention all children eight years old and under: Come to the Rogers’s place on Christmas Eve to see Santa and receive a gift.”
The day the gifts arrived was the day the work really began. The Rogers girls and their best friends became a squad of gift wrappers. Paper and ribbons flew as each gift was adorned in bright Christmas array, and candy bags were filled. What fun it was! Best of all, the family could see that their plan was working—Grandpa was pleased that he had been asked to dress as Santa and pass out gifts.
Each year, the Rogers family festooned a huge blue spruce with hundreds of colored lights. The festive tree was on one side of the front yard and across the street from the Social Hall. The three girls particularly enjoyed lighting it each night. All the Christmas programs and dances in the area were held in the hall, and the family hoped that their lighted tree added to everyone’s Christmas spirit.
Long evenings were spent making decorations for the old tree. Mother popped corn, and the girls strung it into long strands. They also made great chains of colored paper. These were hung carefully around the tree’s boughs after the lights had been put on. LeOla, Ruby, and Alice took turns decorating and then redecorating the tree until it was just right. They made sure each limb was trimmed perfectly before Father turned on the lights.
At last Christmas Eve day arrived. A feathery snow began to fall, blanketing everything in fresh, bright white. The Rogers girls thought the tree looked even more beautiful than before as its colored lights reflected in the snow.
After supper, LeOla looked out the window. It was only five o’clock, and the street was filled with people! There was a line of fathers with children on their shoulders, and mothers with their arms filled with toddlers, all waiting for a chance to see Santa. Others milled around, just enjoying the sights. It stopped snowing, and the stars began to peep out from behind the clouds. Upstairs, behind the snow-topped rails of an uncovered porch, carolers began to sing. Below them, Leon and Thalia Kartchnew were strumming along on their guitars.
At last Grandpa, dressed in his bright red suit, came out of the house and stood behind the snow-laden picket fence under the tree. The soft strains of the Christmas carols drifted down over the crowd, and a feeling of peace and quiet sifted among the people.
As each child came up to Santa, he handed him or her a gift. There were bracelets, lockets, or dolls for the girls. For the boys, a top or some marbles. Each child was also given a sack of candy and nuts.
LeOla could not recall seeing so many smiling faces before. All the children were happy—except one.
A young boy burst into tears of great disappointment when he saw his gift. “But Santa,” he sobbed, “I wrote you for a pocketknife!”
“Santa” knew that the young lad’s father had died several years before and that his mother was quite poor and probably couldn’t afford the gift he wanted so badly. Putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, he whispered, “I will leave it in your stocking tonight!”
Although it was quite late when the last visitor left, Grandpa Locy changed his clothes, put on his heavy winter coat, and trudged out into the now-bitter night air. He crunched a path through the snow to the town’s only general store. By the time he arrived, the storekeeper and his family were already in bed.
Grandpa Locy knocked on the door until the sleepy-eyed storekeeper opened the door and let him in to make his purchase. Then he headed for the boy’s home on the far side of town. Though he had smiled many times in the past few days, his biggest smile came as he thought of the little boy’s happiness upon finding the pocketknife in his stocking.
The next morning, there were no gifts waiting under the tree for LeOla, Ruby, or Alice. There were no new dolls, no tea sets, and no frilly new dresses. There was, however, one gift for the entire family—Grandpa Locy’s smile! And many, many years later, when the Rogers girls were grandmas, they would remember and tell their own grandchildren about the very best Christmas that they ever had!

In June 1994, I learned a lesson that, I hope, will be forever engraved in my memory.
I had planned to climb with a coworker more than 1,200 meters up Spain’s Sierra de Alhamilla. From the top of this independent mountain range, we would each take off in our hang gliders. We planned to take advantage of bright blue skies and enjoy a marvelous flight over the Tabernas desert and the valleys of Pechina and Viator.
The night before our intended flight, my evening prayers were interrupted by a strong impression that I should not fly the following morning. I was surprised not only by the strength of this impression but also by its persistence. Though I had enough experience to know better—I was a member of the district council and was the district Young Men president—I foolishly ignored the prompting; I thought that perhaps the impression was a product of my imagination or my fear of a new experience. I decided that I would go ahead with the climb, but that I would cancel my flight if the weather conditions were not right.
The following day seemed perfect as my friend and I began our climb. I forgot about the impression I had received the night before and looked forward to my flight.
When we got to the top, we found that the wind was not blowing from the expected direction. As I assembled the glider, the wind changed again and began blowing from a different direction. I felt a great weight on my shoulders and questioned our decision to fly. Nevertheless, I felt some pressure to keep the promise I had made to my friend, and being stubborn, I decided to be the first one to take off.
As soon as I left the mountaintop, I knew I should not have done it. I dropped rapidly toward the trees right below my take-off point, my alarming descent announced by a constant beeping coming from a gauge I had with me. The tree tops, which at first had seemed far away, rushed toward me, getting bigger and bigger. Wind turbulence tossed the hang glider about like a leaf in the wind, and I lost control. Trapped in a narrowing canyon and unable to keep a flight path, I feared that I would crash into the mountainside and be killed. The wind was blowing in my ears, threatening me. It sounded as if it were saying, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Just at this terrifying moment, I remembered the impression from the night before. I realized it had been a warning, and I immediately repented of my disrespect for the concern the Lord had shown for my welfare. I prayed aloud, begging him to help me get out of the maelstrom that gripped me.
Suddenly, I seemed to gain a measure of control and saw a small clearing that I could use as a landing place. I was closing in to land when the wind hit me again. I fell 10 meters, the hang glider dropping fast toward the ground as if there weren’t any air. Just as I was about to hit the ground, the wing of my hang glider tipped up and I was able to land. When I pulled myself from the hang glider, I found I had a few cuts and the hang glider had two broken parts. And I had learned a lesson I will never forget.
I left the mountain feeling great gratitude toward the Lord for his tender care. In spite of my hardheadedness, he had preserved my life.

I have been inspired by Moroni’s courage because of the many trials the world has seen this year, including the COVID-19 pandemic. Many of us around the world were forced into social isolation this year, some of us needing to separate ourselves from the people we love most. I too had to make that difficult decision.
I am a pediatric doctor, and I work on the front lines to give children urgent and emergency care in Maranhão, Brazil. During this pandemic, I made the difficult decision to avoid close physical contact with my beloved husband, two-year-old daughter, mother-in-law, and nephews (who all live in my home), along with all my other family and friends elsewhere. I isolated myself to avoid possibly transmitting the disease.
Social isolation was difficult because my family is so close. Every Sunday we get together for lunch. We also have regular family nights. I soon discovered that without them, I felt sad and lonely. However, I decided to spend a lot of time reading the Book of Mormon to invite the Spirit into my life. I learned that having the Holy Ghost as my constant companion helps me focus on gratitude and goodness, shows me how to serve others, and surrounds me with the Savior’s love during difficult times.
Sometimes I wonder how comforting it must have been for Moroni to read the words of his father, Mormon, after he was gone. I tried to apply his words to me: “Be faithful in Christ [my daughter]; ... may Christ lift thee up” (Moroni 9:25). I’ve learned that He always will! The Savior can give us power that is greater than all the problems we may face in this troubled world and help us hold on to hope.
As hard as this year has been, I am so grateful this experience has strengthened my testimony of Jesus Christ and taught me to place my total trust in Him as Moroni did. As I read the account of Jesus Christ in the Americas, I realized that before His arrival, the land of the Nephites was undergoing great and wonderful transformations (see 3 Nephi 11:1). Certainly, before the Savior returns, we will be able to go through our own transformation, preparing ourselves to meet Him again. I know that all the challenges we are experiencing all give us the opportunity to help us prepare to meet Him.
I know that Jesus Christ is my Savior. He is the light that I need to guide me when the way is uncertain. And I know that the Book of Mormon is a testament of Him. The truths found in that book can truly help us turn to Him and to have strength and courage and faith in times of crisis. I know it has for me.

Growing up, Sue was just part of the gang until the gang started going a direction she did not care to follow. Her upbringing in the Church gave her a different perspective than her friends.
“In my sophomore year, my friends started doing awful things that would make me cry for them. I just wanted to shake them and ask, ‘What are you doing?’ but you can’t. It was frustrating. I started saying to myself, ‘Hey, Sue, no one is going to stick with you through this. You’re on your own.’”
That’s when she decided to make her own choices and possibly lead her friends in the right direction as well. Her bishop, Allen Dance of the Snoqualmie Valley Ward, noticed her ability to bring people up to a higher level. “Sue has always been a magnet towards the good. She has pulled up the weak in our ward and in the school. She goes out of her way to be friends to people who need a friend. As a result of her example, others have been affected.”

It was twenty-eight years ago that two young women brought the greatest and most precious influence into my family’s life.
We were living in a beautiful little town in Texas. Life was calm. I was very active in my church, an officer in the choir, Sunday School teacher, active in our Christian service organization. I loved my fellow church members and my neighbors dearly. We had bought a little home, and we had four lovely children, the oldest ten and the youngest just a few months old.
From my kitchen window I could look through to the end of the block and across the street and watch the construction of a building of some kind. I didn’t know what it was, but something drew me to it, and each day as I did the dishes I’d look out the window and note the progress. Our neighbors were curious, too, and when we found out it was a Mormon church, we were so upset. I didn’t know the Mormons even existed in this part of the country.
Several months passed. The little church on the corner was completed. It was small, but tastefully done in pinkish stone. I never saw anybody with long skirts or funny hats go in and out, though I expected to. I was rather disappointed that the members looked just like us.
One day there was a knock on the door. There stood two young ladies, neatly dressed. I cordially invited them into my home, and, like any good Texan, immediately asked if they’d like a cup of coffee. They politely declined, and we soon entered into a discussion about God the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ. They told me some things I’d never heard before. They said God had a body—a real body of flesh and bone—and looked much like one of us. Imagine! God, whom I loved so dearly, looking like a person. It almost seemed sacrilegious. I remember saying good-bye to them at the door, thinking, “You’re wonderful young ladies, but you certainly have some funny ideas. Your church has certainly led you astray. But you really believe it with all your hearts.”
About the same time the next week, another knock came on the door. It was the same two ladies. I invited them in, offered them coffee again, and they graciously declined again. Another discussion. Another parting at the door. This time they told me about a present-day prophet! Out loud I said, “It must give you a very good feeling to believe you have a prophet to lead you.” They assured me that it did. My inner thoughts said, “How does this church get them to believe something so strongly?”
Another meeting. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee with us?” Again a polite “No, thank you.” To my amazement my husband came into the room and sat in on the discussion with us.
We had more meetings each week. They told my husband and me all kinds of things—Nebuchadnezzar’s dream, the stone cut out of a mountain without hands, Jeremiah’s prophecies, the two “sticks” that would become one. I had read all these things before. I loved the Bible—it was very dear to me. Even as a child I loved it. I read a chapter each night before I went to bed, so some of the things the young women talked about were familiar. But now they started falling into place in logical order. How exciting it was!
By now our children had joined with us in the discussions, and the two sisters who had originally knocked on our door had been replaced by another pair of lady missionaries. I would put the baby in his playpen, and then we’d start bombarding the missionaries with question after question. We found that the two sticks mentioned in prophecy were the Bible and the Book of Mormon. “Do we get to see the Book of Mormon? When? When can I read it? Next discussion?” This was going to be a long week—I could hardly wait.
The week was long. I kept thinking about the Book of Mormon and could hardly wait to get my hands on it. The day finally arrived, and I hoped in my heart they wouldn’t forget the Book of Mormon. I even thought they might finally have a cup of coffee with us.
As we discussed the Book of Mormon, they told me of a wonderful promise contained in it. Yes, we’d give it a try. We’d pray about it.
It took only a few pages of the Book of Mormon to convince me that it was true. It’s true! This is the word of God! And so, each morning at 6:00 I would take my cup of coffee out on the back steps of the house in the cool morning air and read until the children woke up. How forceful were the words! Who could ever deny, after reading this book, that it was the word of God? It is the word of God! What a feeling of excitement, of discovery, of awe, of warmth, of wonder.
We still had at least three more discussions left when we were interrupted. Our four-year-old daughter, Nancy, came down with what appeared to be polio. I was still teaching a class in my church—dreading now to go—but instead of teaching my Sunday School class that morning, I was feverishly getting Nancy ready for a spinal tap at the local hospital. Our suspicions were confirmed; she had polio. We took Nancy to the Children’s Hospital in Houston, and I packed my Book of Mormon, knowing there would be many hours of waiting ahead of me. Somehow I knew that she would be all right.
In two weeks she was released from the hospital, and I had read a great deal of my new book.
Once more the missionary discussions began. At the next meeting I finally learned why it was that the missionaries kept refusing when I asked them if they would like a cup of coffee. When they told me they abstained from coffee, tea, alcohol, and tobacco, my heart sank. I thought to myself, “Now they’re going to tell me they don’t dance, go to movies, cut their hair, and any number of things.” But I was ready to give up whatever they asked. I already knew the gospel was true.
Now we were near the end of the discussions, and the plan of salvation was being presented. I’ll never be able to describe the joy I felt when I was told that I had dwelt with God before—that he knew me and taught me before I was born. You mean he actually knows me? Me? Just think! God knows me! Me! I was overjoyed. I wept. This was the most beautiful thing I had ever hear—that I had dwelt with God before, and that he knew me personally. Now I could easily think of him as a kind Father, a God of flesh and bone.
When the elders were introduced to us, I was very excited. The sister missionaries had told us about the priesthood, and I was in awe of the elders when they came. I felt the greatest respect for someone who held the priesthood of God. It was such a new thing for me. The children loved them instantly.
Yes, we were baptized. We had knelt in prayer and for the first time, self-consciously and timidly, and prayed together vocally. In simplicity and humility we asked our Heavenly Father if these things were true, and, in answer, received the warm, sweet assurances that only the Holy Ghost can bring.
In the many years since our baptism as a family, there have been many joys—yes, and many sorrows too, especially the death of my husband. Yet we have known the security of the priesthood in our home, the comfort of home teachers. We have laughed, sung, cried; we’ve been down to the depths of despair, and up to the heights of spirituality. We have experienced the sweetness of a temple marriage, the meaning of eternal friendships, the strength of the iron rod when all seemed utterly hopeless. We have helped make peanut butter in welfare projects in Texas, and helped to weed beet fields and canned peas in Provo, where we now live with our new husband and father.
Above all, we are truly grateful to be members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and for the missionaries who made it possible. And now we have sent our own David out as a missionary, with the hope that he will find other receptive souls and bring to them the joy and happiness that the missionaries brought to us.

A young adult woman had a gift for writing and some personal experience with depression. When her teenage sister was dealing with a difficult situation at school, she was able to recognize that her sister was slipping into despondency. Heeding the Spirit’s promptings, she wrote her sister a series of beautiful notes, expressing her love and confidence, one for each day of an especially trying two-week period. In that small choice to meet her sister’s need, this young woman was living her mission.

When I was a little boy, one of the favorite games played in our neighborhood was “Kick the Can.” Usually it was played at dusk with all of the children in the neighborhood gathered in one of the yards or orchards where there were many hiding places. The game began with the one who was “it” standing over the tin can with his eyes tightly closed, counting, while all the other youngsters fled to hiding places. He concluded his counting, “ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred! “And then he would shout in a loud voice, “Here I come. Ready or not, you will be caught.” And so the game began.
I have thought when observing a teacher struggling with a disinterested class, or watching a parent trying to give an untimely lesson to a youngster, that teaching is something of a game in which we announce through our actions, “Here I come. Ready or not, you will be taught.”
If teaching is to be effective, it must capitalize on the readiness of the students to learn. A number of years ago when I was teaching seminary, a student was killed in an automobile accident on the way to school. There was a pall of gloom and shock over the whole school that day. The students came to class more serious and ready to learn than I had ever seen them before. I was teaching Church history, and we were bringing the pioneers West. But that was not the time for a lesson on pioneering. That day they were ready for a lesson on the atonement of Christ, the resurrection, life after death.
A good teacher will be alert and will seize upon the opportunity to teach when the youngster is ready. Many lessons that we have been anxious to teach our own children have had to wait until they were ready.
One of the major difficulties, and one of the monumental dangers, of sex education courses in public schools is that they disregard this significant principle of teaching. They tell all before the youngster is ready, and in so doing, they often wreak havoc with the spiritual, emotional, and moral stability of the students. They open them to great jeopardy. Things should be done in the season thereof, and there is a time for all things. A wise teacher and a wise parent will be alert to that fact.
Likewise, in programming Church activities we should use great wisdom in considering the maturity and readiness of our members to be taught the basic principles of morality. If we teach the basic principles too soon, they may be meaningless to the youngsters. The matter of teaching morality may be necessary, but the framework in which it is set should recognize the degree of maturity and readiness.
For instance, when the youngster is too young to have been subjected to the urging of physical desires, he must be taught about the subject in an entirely different way than will be appropriate when he is older. There will come a time for some more mature discussion later, but this must always be with reverence.
Information presented to a student must be palatable to him and of such a nature that his learning constitution can digest it. Unfortunately, there is no series of charts or graphs or measures or tests available that will enable the parent or the teacher to gain an accurate profile of maturation of each student and thereby tailor his teachings accordingly. This means that we must be careful and must be quiet observers of each youngster in order to be able to understand when he is ready. This is true of many subjects.
The principle of readiness is important when teaching our own children. Parents are with their children almost constantly and can observe when they are ready to be instructed. From questions or behavior or because of experiences in their own lives, they can sense that it is time to teach. Parents must know when the time for the lesson is now, right now, for their children are ready for it.
My wife and I have made it a practice as parents never to put off a question from one of our youngsters. Regardless of how unimportant the question seems or how busily we are involved, we have always been willing to interrupt anything to respond to the question of a youngster. That is because the question is an indication that he is ready; he wants to know—now.
We have learned something about feeding that intangible, invisible appetite within by comparing it with physical hunger. While our children have been growing up we have made it a practice to feed them when they are hungry. Now that may seem like a very strange and reckless thing to do, but it has been very successful.
Soon after our children come home from school, a hot dinner is waiting for them. About four-thirty or five o’clock they eat. They have been in school all day; their blood sugar is low; they are restless and tired; and when they come home they are hungry.
There are two courses that could be followed. Their mother could serve them cookies and milk or bread and jam in order to tide them over until dinner time, in which case their appetite is usually dulled and they don’t eat as well as they should at dinner. The other course is to feed them the dinner when they are most hungry. They eat heartily, and then the snack comes a little before bedtime.
It is interesting to see them, after they have had a good meal, go about their chores or settle into studying or peacefully play or take care of any other activities.
The question is immediately raised: Well, doesn’t father eat with the children, then? Father has his dinner when he comes home. Often the children sit around and visit. And with a snack served later, it is like family home evening virtually every night.
This has contributed much to the peace and tranquillity of our home because the children are fed when they are ready.
There is, of course, a comparison to teaching in this. Sometimes we give students little off-hand answers, little tidbits that really spoil their appetite for learning, and they come away without being given the nourishment spiritually and intellectually that they need.
The cry from the childhood game, “Ready or not, you will be taught,” is poor advice for any teacher or parent.

When I was nine years old, my white-haired, four-foot-eleven-inch (1.5 m) maternal grandmother came to spend a few weeks with us at our home. One afternoon while she was there, my two older brothers and I decided to dig a hole in a field across the street from our house. I don’t know why we did it; sometimes boys dig holes. We got a little dirty but nothing that would get us into too much trouble. Other boys in the neighborhood saw just how exciting it was to dig a hole and started to help. Then we all got dirtier together. The ground was hard, so we dragged a garden hose over and put a little water in the bottom of the hole to soften up the ground. We got some mud on us as we dug, but the hole did get deeper.
Someone in our group decided we should turn our hole into a swimming pool, so we filled it up with water. Being the youngest and wanting to fit in, I was persuaded to jump in and try it out. Now I was really dirty. I didn’t start out planning to be covered in mud, but that’s where I ended up.
When it started to get cold, I crossed the street, intending to walk into my house. My grandmother met me at the front door and refused to let me in. She told me that if she let me in, I would track mud into the house that she had just cleaned. So I did what any nine-year-old would do under the circumstances and ran to the back door, but she was quicker than I thought. I got mad, stomped my feet, and demanded to come into the house, but the door remained closed.
I was wet, muddy, cold, and, in my childhood imagination, thought I might die in my own backyard. Finally, I asked her what I had to do to come into the house. Before I knew it, I found myself standing in the backyard while my grandmother sprayed me off with a hose. After what seemed like an eternity, my grandmother pronounced me clean and let me come into the house. It was warm in the house, and I was able to put on dry, clean clothes.
Standing outside of my house being sprayed off by my grandmother was unpleasant and uncomfortable. Being denied the opportunity to return and be with our Father in Heaven because we chose to remain in or dirtied by a mud hole of sin would be eternally tragic. We should not deceive ourselves about what it takes to return and remain in the presence of our Father in Heaven. We have to be clean.

When Francesca Morelli met the missionaries three years ago in northern Germany, she was 16 years old and facing harmful pressures from peers. “Two weeks before I met the missionaries,” she says, “I had friends who wanted me to start using drugs. Then I met the missionaries, and everything changed.”
After several weeks of discussions, Francesca wanted to be baptized, but her mother was vehemently opposed to the Church. Only after much pleading and heartache did Francesca finally receive her mother’s permission. She was baptized on 23 November 1997. Members of the Altona Ward, Hamburg Germany Stake, welcomed her with love and fellowship. The other young women have been especially supportive. “My closest friends who have never left me alone are from the Church,” says Francesca.
Since her baptism, Francesca’s mother has followed her example and joined the Church, and her younger brother is hearing the discussions and looking forward to his own baptism. “I’m just thankful I met the missionaries when I was so young,” says Francesca. “I don’t know what would have happened to me if I had not found the gospel.”