Gospel Story Finder

One Sunday morning I was asked if I’d like to have home teachers visit me. I had just recently been divorced and was having a hard time facing my new life as a single mother with two small children. I said I would appreciate a visit. At the time, I was feeling bitter about my situation and felt alone in my struggles.
The following week, two good brothers came to my home. During their visit they asked the usual questions and shared a short gospel message with my family.
Then these good brothers asked, “Sister Nereida, what can we do to help you?”
Without thinking much about it, I told them the light bulbs were out above the stairs going up to the second floor. I had replacement bulbs, but I couldn’t reach high enough to change them, and I worried about using a ladder on the stairs. I also told them that I had no working lights in the backyard.
Right away they got up. One went out to his car and returned with a tool chest. He was almost six and a half feet (1.9 m) tall, so he climbed the stairs and changed the bulb without any problem. Meanwhile, his companion went to the backyard and noticed the wire connection was reversed. In no time he was able to fix it.
How grateful I have been to my home teachers over the years for their simple act of kindness, love, and dedication and for the wonderful lesson they taught me. My home teachers were truly angels who not only brought light to our home but also brought the peace, hope, and safety of the gospel, which brings light to any kind of darkness.

“Today is the worst day of my life!” Becky cried as she ran straight to her room. A few minutes later, Mom came in. “What happened at school today, Becky? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Mom, it’s just horrible,” Becky said. “You know how hard I’ve been working on my community service project for school?”
“Yes. The children at the shelter will really appreciate the extra help with their homework and the used books you’ve been collecting,” Mom said.
Becky nodded. “Well, a little while ago I told Elisabeth about my project. She was having a hard time thinking of one, so I thought it would help her get her own idea. But today, when she presented her project, it was my project idea! I’m supposed to present mine tomorrow, and everyone will think I copied her!”
“I’m sorry, Becky. I bet you really feel bad.” Mom hugged Becky tightly.
“I feel worse than bad, Mom. I feel so mad. I thought she was my friend! How could she do this?”
“That is a hard question. What do you think?”
Becky frowned. “Sometimes it seems like it’s more important to get a good grade or have people think you are cool than to be honest. I don’t think Elisabeth even feels bad at all. Maybe I should copy someone else’s project, too. Or maybe I should embarrass Elisabeth in front of the whole school!”
“You wouldn’t really want to do that, would you, Becky?” Mom asked.
Becky buried her head under her pillow and moaned. “No.”
“Why?” Mom asked.
“In Primary we learned about the six Bs that President Hinckley taught. One of them was to be true. Sister MacArthur said that meant that we should have integrity—that we should do what’s right, no matter what,” Becky said.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Integrity means you are incorruptible—that no one can make you do the wrong thing.”
“Nobody’s incorruptible, Mom!” Becky exclaimed.
“I don’t know about that, Becky. The scriptures teach us about some people who were. One of them was Job. Even though he lost his riches, his health, and even his family, he said, ’Till I die I will not remove mine integrity from me.’* His example showed that no matter what happens, you still have control over the way you respond.”
“Are there any other examples?” Becky asked.
“Well, yes. Helaman’s stripling warriors are known for their courage and strength, but did you know that the scriptures also say they were true at all times?**“
Becky sighed. “I want to be like that. But I still don’t know what to do about my project!”
“The answer may not be an easy one,” Mom said, “but if you ask, Heavenly Father will help you.”
That night and the next morning, Becky stayed a little longer on her knees in prayer. Even though she wasn’t sure what she was going to do, she had a calm, peaceful feeling inside.
When she arrived at school, she saw Elisabeth standing alone by the drinking fountain. Becky took a deep breath and walked toward her.
“Hi,” Elisabeth said uneasily.
“Hi. Can I talk to you about the service project?”
Elisabeth’s face turned red and her jaw tightened. At first she looked like she might run away, but after a minute she looked up at Becky. “Um, Becky, I’m sorry for copying your idea. My grandma is a school librarian, and she sent me a whole box of books that her school didn’t need anymore. I thought about how great the books would be for the kids at the shelter. I guess I just got carried away, and before I knew it, I turned it into my project.”
Becky had to admit that Elisabeth had brought in more books than she could ever have collected on her own.
“But now I don’t have a project,” Becky said. Just then, the bell rang.
“Maybe you still do,” Elisabeth said as she grabbed Becky’s arm and pulled her towards class.
Elisabeth started to cry a little when she told Mrs. Taramoto that she had copied Becky’s project. Becky thought it took a lot of courage to admit what she had done. Elisabeth said she had an idea how to help Becky with her presentation, so Mrs. Taramoto let them have a little extra time before lunch to make a plan.
Usually standing before a lot of people made Becky nervous, but this time she wasn’t very anxious at all. After she explained that she and Elisabeth were going to work together on their service project to create an entire library for the shelter and a homework tutoring center, several children came up to her and asked if they could sign up to be homework helpers or donate some books to the shelter library, too.
The following Sunday in Primary, Sister MacArthur asked the class to think of songs that could represent each one of President Hinckley’s six Bs. Becky and Elisabeth raised their hands at the same time. “Army of Helaman,” they both said. As she sang, Becky thought of the stripling warriors and how they worked together. She also thought of how they were true at all times. She smiled and sang a little louder. It felt good to know she could also be true, no matter what.

And now another example. [Some of the actual names and places have been changed.] In March of 1978, a letter was received by the Wilson family, who live in Idaho. It began, “Dear Brother and Sister Wilson, Just a short note to see how things are going with you and let you know how things are with me.”
This letter was written by the Wilsons’ Lamanite foster daughter, Celia Red Horse, whom they had not heard from for several years.
The seeds of their relationship had been planted in 1965 in a talk delivered by Elder Spencer W. Kimball, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve. Brother Wilson, who was a bishop at the time of Elder Kimball’s address, was impressed with the words of a scripture from the Book of Mormon: “I will soften the hearts of the Gentiles that they shall be like unto a father to them” (2 Ne. 10:18). As the meeting continued, Bishop Wilson was further touched in his heart and determined within himself to help with the Indian student placement program. In the fall of 1967, a wonderful new experience came into the lives of the Wilson family when sixteen-year-old Celia Red Horse came to live with them for the school year.
To quote the Wilsons: “We enjoyed Celia and had some special times with her. She was a good student and very obedient. When she went home to the reservation, we communicated with her for some time, but gradually, as the years passed, there was less communication.”
After Celia left, the Wilsons had several other young Lamanites in their home over the years, all of whom they came to love, appreciate, and have a special relationship with. By 1978, when Celia’s letter arrived, eleven years had passed. The Wilson family had grown to include ten children of their own, and they had not participated in the placement program for two years. May I continue to read from Celia’s letter:
“Right now, I am working as a secretary. I am saving a lot of my pay so that I can buy clothes for my daughter before she can go on placement.
“I guess I haven’t seen you or your family for about ten years. I know everyone has changed quite a bit. I imagine the kids are all grown up and gone. …
“I have one little girl. Her name is Margaret. She is seven and will be going on placement this fall. She wants to go. I have told her all about the program. She has never been away from home in all her seven years.
“Do you remember my brother David? Well, he has already been on his mission, and now he is at BYU. He is coming back this summer to baptize Margaret. He came home in December for the Christmas vacation. Then, while he was back for Christmas, he blessed my brother’s little girl. Before that, he baptized two others in our family.
“How old are Joy, Curt, Rhonda, Gary, and Jenny? I remember them all—Joy and her allergy, Curt and his accordion, Rhonda and her ballet lessons, and how Gary used to swim like a little frog in the swimming pool. I can still remember Jenny and her red hair. All of these kids are probably teenagers or older. How are they all doing?”
Celia goes on to mention that the problems of modern youth having to do with alcohol and drugs have infiltrated the reservation as seriously as they have the inner city. She indicates deep gratitude for the Church and its teachings, which have such a profound effect in keeping young people from some of the mistakes of their peers. She also indicates that through the teachings of the Church her family is closer and more secure. She tells us that most of her little brothers and sisters are going to be involved in the placement program this year, and then she goes on to ask:
“Are you still participating in the placement program?
“Please write and tell me all the news. …
“I think I better close here. Take care, and may the Lord bless you in all your righteous endeavors. Love. …”
As Brother and Sister Wilson read this lovely letter from Celia, Brother Wilson vaguely remembered a portion of the address he had heard Elder Kimball deliver twelve years earlier. “Elder Kimball had said that success would not be felt in the first generation, but real success would come in the second, third, or fourth,” Brother Wilson recalled. “When this statement came back to me, I felt that we should invite Celia’s daughter to come into our home, for this would be the second generation of the same family in the same home.”
An inquiry was made through the Indian placement program as to whether it would be possible for Margaret to live with the Wilsons. When Celia found out this was possible, “she immediately called us and with tears said how pleased she would be to have Margaret come to the home where she had once lived,” Brother Wilson said.
Margaret spent the 1978–79 school year with the Wilson family and, like her mother before her, brought as much to the Wilson family as she received from them.
“She is very generous with others,” Sister Wilson said. “If someone comments on something that she has and says, ‘I like that,’ then Margaret will give it to him. Each of our children receives an allowance, and since Margaret is considered one of the children she also gets an allowance.
“Last Christmas we talked about doing something as a family to help somebody else. Margaret had saved up quite a bit of her allowance, which she gave to the family project.
“She helps out with household chores just like any other member of the family. She and Angela, who is also eight, share kitchen duties one night a week. They also have other responsibilities in the home.”
Brother Wilson recalled that when Margaret first came into their home, she was very quiet and did not express herself very well. Her mother, Celia, had asked the Wilsons to help Margaret learn how to pray and express her feelings.
Now “she asks if she can ask the blessing on the food or if she can offer prayers,” Brother Wilson reports. “And when she prays, the rest of us really listen because she has some very good thoughts.”
As the end of the school year approached, the Wilsons made arrangements for Celia to visit with them in Idaho, and a special reunion time was held with her at that time as she came back to her foster home and stayed with her daughter and her foster family. She took Margaret home with her and, in discussion with the Wilson family, decided that Margaret should remain home with her family this year and attend school on the reservation.

Amanda had many friends who watched videos after school. Some of the videos had scenes that Amanda wasn’t sure Heavenly Father or her parents would like, and she wondered if she should watch them.
____ Being with her friends was fun. The videos weren’t that bad, and she would be a part of the group. If she didn’t watch the videos, she might not have anything at all to do after school.
____ Amanda chose to watch the videos with her friends.
____ She prayed to know if her decision was right.
____ Amanda felt uneasy about her decision to watch the videos.

They taught us for a few weeks, and I really believed what they told me. But Mom was brought up in her religion and thought she was sinful thinking any other way. I don’t know if Mama asked them not to come back, or if the missionaries felt like they shouldn’t baptize an 11-year-old girl without her family, but they stopped coming.
I didn’t know where they had gone. I didn’t know where the church met or how to contact the missionaries. They had given me some books, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder and The Doctrine and Covenants. I sat down and studied these books carefully.
By then I was in seventh grade. I remember my teacher wanted us to give a presentation on any subject we chose, and I picked Mormonism. I remember studying for it so hard. I then got up and gave my presentation in front of all the students and the faculty, and I wasn’t even a member of the Church. I think I answered every question correctly.
About a year and a half after the first missionaries visited us, another set of missionaries knocked on the door. My family wasn’t home, but they gave me a Book of Mormon. They said they would be back in a couple of days to see what I thought about it. I was baptized the next week and have hardly missed a Sunday since.
I remember that I wasn’t very comfortable at church for a while because I didn’t have my family to go with me. I knew the Church was true, so I gave myself a year to get comfortable and see how I fit. By the time that year was up, I never wanted to leave church. Mama used to say, “Honey, why don’t you come home once in a while.” Every opportunity I had, I was at church. I loved it there.
A sister in the ward came up to me, just before I left on my mission, and asked me, “What kept you coming back to church, every Sunday all by yourself.” I really couldn’t give her a direct answer, but something pushed me toward church every Sunday.
I don’t think it was coincidence that missionaries hocked on my door at 9:25 that night during a storm when missionaries are supposed to be in at 9:30. It was their last house, and with the storm they could have easily rationalized going home five minutes early. Those missionaries never knew that the 11-year-old girl listening in the background joined the Church and became a missionary herself.
That thought made me a better missionary. I would say to myself, “One more door. I was the last door, so one more door.”

While the decisions we make determine our course, we can revise that course by choosing to repent of our sins. As we change our path and seek forgiveness, the Savior’s infinite Atonement makes it possible for us to ultimately feel peace. One reader shares her feelings about finding the Lord’s peace:
“I am a young woman, 17 years old. I was baptized when I was 11. When I turned 14, I started dating a boy who was not a member of the Church and I became less-active. I did things that were wrong, and I felt dirty. I could not forgive myself, and I thought the Lord would not forgive me either.
“One day I saw two missionaries. For some reason, I felt the desire to pray again. I went home and offered a prayer to Heavenly Father. Then I got out my Book of Mormon and began to read. That Sunday I went to church and heard one of the missionaries bear his testimony. His words filled me with a desire to obtain a true testimony.
“As I prayed, read the scriptures, and fasted, I came to know the gospel is true, and I was filled with sorrow for what I had done. I told my branch president everything. I was so ashamed I felt my heart had shattered. He called a disciplinary council, and I was placed on probation.
“One night I read about Alma’s conversion in Alma 36:15–21. Tears filled my eyes. I knelt down and said: ‘Lord, free me from my sins as You did Alma. I know You can forgive my sins by the power of the atoning blood of Jesus Christ.’ At that moment, I felt a great power in my body. Among the tears on my face was a smile of joy. I felt, as did Alma, an exquisite joy.
“When my probation ended, my branch president called me to serve as secretary of the Young Women, branch music director, and a Primary teacher. I know Jesus Christ atoned for our sins and wants us to repent and return to Him.”

I had been preparing to be a Buddhist nun. But everything changed in December 1985, when I was converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ and was baptized a member of the Church.
I began working as a delivery driver for a catering company. Such a routine job may sound boring, but I enjoyed the opportunity it gave me to share the gospel and make new friends.
Strangely, it seemed that almost every customer had something to say about religion at one time or another. But I never told them I was a Latter-day Saint unless they asked about my church. Once in a while I made arrangements to visit with customers after work to tell them more about the Church.
Most of my customers were at home when I made my deliveries. But if no one was there, I left a note with the deliveries. One customer who was never home when I called was Mrs. Ueki. She began to respond to my notes, and I looked forward to receiving her heartwarming message every day. Although I had never seen her, I gave her the nickname of “Ducky.” She responded by nicknaming me “Rooster.”
About this time, I was preparing for my mission call to Hokkaido, Japan. In the middle of March, I wrote Ducky to tell her I was going out of town, but I didn’t tell her why. I didn’t want her to feel I had become her friend just to baptize her. I sincerely wished to continue our friendship.
But after many humble prayers, I finally decided to write Ducky and tell her I was a Latter-day Saint. I wanted her to know why I had joined the Church and why I was going to Hokkaido for eighteen months. The next day, I left her the letter along with two missionary brochures, The Purpose of Life and The Testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Two weeks after I arrived at Asahikawa, Hokkaido, I received a letter from Ducky. As soon as I opened it, I recognized the beautiful, familiar handwriting: “Dear Rooster, How have you been? How is life treating you? Are the people there nice to you? I hope you are not having any trouble. Do you eat well? I am concerned about your well being.”
My eyes filled with tears.
Following her opening greetings there was a space of a few lines, and then she began a new letter. This time she addressed me, surprisingly, as “Sister Iwasaki.”
“You left me the brochures on your last delivery. I had always told my friends that I was looking for the true church. After I finished your letter, I browsed through the brochures, and my heart became full. I asked myself, ‘Is this what I have been searching for?’
“I also wanted to know why you chose this church, so on the same day, I called the Osaka Mission Home in Hirakata. We set a date for my first appointment with the missionaries on April 9, which was followed by more visits on April 12 and 16 and on May 2.”
I was elated!
We corresponded with each other for six months, and I could sense her testimony growing over that time. On November 13, when I walked into the chapel, a member told me that there was a package for me. On the package was written “For Your Birthday.” It was from Ducky. Inside was a letter in which she wrote:
“Dear Rooster, I’m sorry I haven’t written to you earlier. Last Friday, my oldest son, Junya, who is eight years old, finished the last missionary discussion. Yesterday he was interviewed for baptism. Guess when the date of our baptismal service is? We could have set it earlier, but we planned it for November 27. Do you know why? Because it’s your birthday!”
That was the best birthday ever—knowing that Ducky and Junya were being baptized. My friends back home attended the baptismal service in my behalf.
I thank God for using me as his tool to help lead Sister Ueki and her family to the gospel.

The peace that you want takes time. It won’t happen overnight. My mother died about five years ago of cancer. It isn’t easy to lose someone we love. I only wish that I had communicated with my dad and my brothers and sisters and told them how I felt. Instead I tried to hide my feelings. Because of my stubbornness, it only got worse when my dad remarried and we moved to a new town. I was heartbroken because all my memories of my mom weren’t around anymore. I blamed my Heavenly Father for doing this to me and making my life miserable.
I now feel peace within because I decided to let go of all my past hurts and look toward the future. Yes, I still have my days when I wonder why, but Heavenly Father has the whole eternal perspective of life, and we only have a narrow view.
I hope that you will keep communications with your family open. Let them know how you’re feeling.
Please stay close to your Heavenly Father. He loves all of us, and he will comfort you when you’re really down. I can testify to that.
Mary Beth Bentley, 18Danville, California

“I am going to shovel Sister Gourdin’s sidewalk,” Phoebe said to her mother. Sister Gourdin was an elderly neighbor.
“Can you do it by yourself?” Mom asked Phoebe. When Phoebe said she could, her mother helped her put on her boots and zip her coat.
Mom watched out the window as Phoebe began to lift the deep snow with a large shovel. Soon Phoebe had finished the sidewalk. She found Sister Gourdin’s newspaper in the snow and was excited to leave it on the doorstep.
Phoebe’s mother told her that shoveling the snow was a wonderful way to show love to Sister Gourdin.
When Phoebe’s older brothers and sister got home from school, her mother told them what Phoebe had done. “Where do you think she came up with the idea to do that?” Phoebe’s mother asked them. And then she said, “It came from watching all of you who are such good examples of helping our neighbors.”
Phoebe’s act of service shows that no one is too young to serve others.

In recent days we have had the honor of having again in our home as a guest a noble, quiet man from Mali, West Africa, an elder in the Church, who has taught his people how to dig wells for themselves and how to use the water on gardens which miraculously produce fresh vegetables and grain that grow on land which heretofore has grudgingly yielded only meager crops of millet. Literacy and health programs have been introduced.

Many other special examples of the strength of Christ’s mission crowd the memory. I share just one or two. Some years ago I was privileged to dedicate a chapel built by the Church in the Kalaupapa leper colony on the island of Molokai in the Hawaiian Islands. The experience was tender and touching and unforgettable.

A musical number by the branch choir, comprising most of the members of the branch, was a poignant highlight. They came forward haltingly from the congregation, many being helped by others to the front of the small, attractive building. They arranged themselves in choir grouping, some of them literally leaning for support against each other. The sight was one that will linger in memory. Many were blind and many halt and lame. They literally supported each other as they sang hymns of praise and thanksgiving to God.

There were a lot of tears at Kalaupapa that day.

As Easter time approaches, let me share with you the tender story of an eleven-year-old boy named Philip, a Down’s syndrome child who was in a Sunday School class with eight other children.

Easter Sunday the teacher brought an empty plastic egg for each child. They were instructed to go out of the church building onto the grounds and put into the egg something that would remind them of the meaning of Easter.

All returned joyfully. As each egg was opened there were exclamations of delight at a butterfly, a twig, a flower, a blade of grass. Then the last egg was opened. It was Philip’s, and it was empty!

Some of the children made fun of Philip. “But, teacher,” he said, “teacher, the tomb was empty.”

A newspaper article announcing Philip’s death a few months later noted that at the conclusion of the funeral eight children marched forward and put a large empty egg on the small casket. On it was a banner that said, “The tomb was empty.”

Brother Joseph Stucki, a faithful Church member, died Christmas Eve in 1927 after a short illness, leaving his wife with seven children, the eldest son being on a mission. Two of the children and a nephew she was rearing were later taken in death. Another son was also sent on a mission. This was accomplished by much hard work—taking in sewing and living on a few dollars per month from an insurance policy.
During this difficult time, flour was being distributed to needy members of the ward. Some of the young men had been asked to deliver it. A bag of flour was brought to Sister Stucki’s home. Since she felt that there were other families in the ward that needed that flour worse than she did, she declined to keep it, telling the young man that she was trying to teach her family to be independent and self-reliant. While worthy members of the Church should feel free to accept help from the Church proffered by the bishop, Sister Stucki was trying to teach the young man who came to her door a lesson. You see, the young man delivering the flour was her own son! All the surviving children attended college and became very successful people. They lived by the motto, “Make it do, or do without.”

The rest of the week was a buzz of activity. I aced my biology test, and Jill Langston won the election by seven votes. I stayed up late for the election dance, and Saturday night I worked until midnight on my research paper. By Sunday morning it was all I could do to keep my eyes open in fast and testimony meeting. I was leaning my head on the bench in front of me when somebody started talking about Brother Davidson. People were always talking about my dad. The woman was explaining how Brother Davidson was an answer to her prayer when he had gone over and helped start their mower and cleaned …

Suddenly I straightened up. Sister Long was speaking. And crying. And she wasn’t even talking about Dad. Nobody had ever called me Brother Davidson. I was just Kyle, Frank Davidson’s kid. And as far as I knew, I had never been an answer to anyone’s prayer.

A few moments later Christy Hudson was at the pulpit, dabbing at her eyes and fighting back tears. “I felt so alone,” she explained, “like no one cared and there was no one to turn to. I was angry with the Lord, the bishop, and everyone else for leaving me stranded. Then Brother Kyle Davidson, my home teacher, showed up with his friend Joel. They were like two angels. Nothing has seemed quite so dark and dismal since Thursday evening. I couldn’t ask for a better home teacher.”

My hand went to my eyes and I felt the lump in my throat. Dad reached over and squeezed my shoulder, and I knew he understood what I was feeling.

Thirty minutes later as I was leaving the chapel, someone called my name. I turned to face Steve Wellman. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you, Kyle,” he said quietly. “Sounds like I have a lot to learn. Let’s go early this month. I’ll make the appointments. You just tell me when.”

I looked over at Dad, and for the first time in my life I understood why Dad got all choked up and hyper about home teaching. It was then that I discovered that my home teaching families were not the only ones who had received the home teaching bonus deal.

This summer, our first grandson was called on a mission. We watched with anticipation and excitement as he prepared for that great adventure. We saw a transformation take place as he experienced his farewell, his temple endowment, and his entrance into the Missionary Training Center. It was a literal miracle to see a typical selfish teenage boy become a selfless servant of God. He became a man overnight. We thrilled at his letters from the Training Center in which he told his friends to get with it—that “this” is where it’s at. We saw a new boldness as he became immersed in his mission. That boldness and spirit have been increased now that he is in the mission field teaching what he believes.
Let me share a portion of a letter he wrote to a nonmember friend who is investigating the Church:
“It’s great to hear you’ve taken the discussions. They are really cool. Let me tell you something about commitment. You have just got to make it. Get committed! Read the Book of Mormon. I did it in nine days, and I only read for one and a half hours a day. Get committed to attend church every week. It is a commandment of God, and it’s necessary for baptism. Get committed to pray. If you would read the Book of Mormon and pray about it, you would know that it is true. Finally, get committed to baptism. Christ did it, and you have to, too. I suspect that you know the gospel is true, or you wouldn’t put up with it. Remember, God knows you know it; and if you don’t make the commitment, he will still hold you accountable because you know the truth. Being lukewarm in the gospel doesn’t do anyone any good—especially you!”
As a grandfather, I exult when I see my own flesh and blood entering the Lord’s service so well prepared and pray that my other grandchildren will respond as readily to the call as he has done.
From the Missionary Training Center, my grandson wrote to a friend: “Read the Book of Mormon. … It is the best book I have ever read, and I am not just saying that.”

The power of the priesthood and the importance of its restoration and blessings came to have special meaning in my life when I was the age of many of you. I was just 15. My mother and father were miles away from our home, and my grandmother was staying with me. While my parents were away, a serious ear infection developed, and I was rushed to the hospital. The infection required major surgery and was carried out immediately. Following the operation, I overheard one of the doctors tell a nurse that the damage to my ear had been so severe that I would permanently lose my hearing and my equilibrium.

When my parents arrived at the hospital and realized the seriousness of my situation, they knew what to do. My father and another Melchizedek Priesthood holder, having the power and authority to act in the name of God, administered to me, using the oil that had been consecrated by the priesthood for the healing of the sick. My father placed his hands upon my shaven head, which was mostly wrapped in bandages, and gave me a blessing.

My mother was also impressed that she should place my name on the prayer roll of the Alberta Temple where those in attendance would join their faith in prayer for me. It was the first time I knew that people could have their name placed on the prayer roll in the temple. In time, through faith and the power of the priesthood, my healing was complete.

When I was 17, I began taking philosophy classes in high school. One day the teacher said to the class, “Surely there isn’t anyone here who believes that Adam really existed!” Then he scanned the room with the look of an inquisitor, ready to pounce on whoever dared to admit to such belief. I was petrified! However, my desire to be loyal to my faith was even stronger. I glanced around to see that I was the only one of those 40 students to raise a hand. The teacher, taken by surprise, changed the subject.

She was 12 years old. But she somehow seemed older. Ungainly, awkward, embarrassed—it was a painful age. Our family had just moved to El Sobrante, and I was new, but even that very first day in class I noticed her. She was slower in just about everything, but there were a lot of kids in the class who had just arrived at that stage in life when arms and legs were getting longer. That wasn’t it. Somehow I could sense it—sort of an unwritten law in the tightly woven society of that classroom that barred her from the rest of the class. Almost no one would have anything to do with her—it was like a class creed.
That was the spring they put some of the fifth and sixth graders together in the same class. I remember a lot of muttering about “corresponding IQ’s” and the “revolution in the elementary school system,” but we didn’t care too much about that sort of thing. All that mattered to us was that we had to go to school.
At recess we would climb a rough dirt road that led to a huge field of long, tickley weeds, sprinkled with wild mustard flowers and tiny purple daisies and acres of golden poppies. It was a sin to pick a poppy, a brand of treason peculiar to Californians.
She would always trail behind us as we climbed up the hill. Sometimes I’d sneak a glance backwards. She wouldn’t even touch a poppy—she’d very carefully pick her way over to a clump of them and reverently inhale. I never could understand that. I could never smell anything, but she could detect a fragrance, I know—her face would betray the secret as a slight smile would form momentarily across her face. Then it would vanish.
Others of us would go running, hand in hand, across the field, or we would play catch or try to play baseball. We weren’t too good at baseball and would usually settle for a modified game of kickball. She would always stay apart from us. Not because she wanted to, I’m sure, but because she had to. It was the unwritten law.
But she withstood the giggling and smirking behind her back. It was behind her back enough so as not to incriminate any of her assailants, yet blatant enough to sting. Seemingly unsophisticated children could so easily hurt her. Yet there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t help her.
There was one other girl in the class who felt the same way I did about the situation. She was quiet. Linda would go over and talk to the girl sometimes. She would smile at her and heal over, just a little, the wounds of the day. She didn’t care about what the others thought. The girl wouldn’t ever say much to Linda, though. I think she was afraid. But every once in a while she would look at Linda and smile just a little.
I remember graduation time. It was the big event of the year. There would be graduation ceremonies for all the sixth graders. They would wear the choir robes, and all the fourth and fifth graders would watch, round eyed, and after the diplomas were handed out and all the handshaking finished, they would sing, “I Believe.” And the mothers would cry a little.
She was graduating that night. I was in the choir. I got to wear my pink flowered dress with the long bow that reached down the length of my dress. Linda was sitting next to me. She was holding a small white package with a fancy blue ribbon wrapped around it. When we were ready to sing, she inconspicuously slid it under her chair.
“I believe for every drop of rain that falls a flower grows …” The mothers cried a little. We sat down again, and Linda picked up the package. I had just about gathered up enough courage to ask her what it was, when it was time for the benediction.
It was over at last; the sixth grade class was a thing of the past. There were grins drawn across all our faces. Linda started walking across the room, and I followed, not knowing where else to go. She was looking for someone—then she saw her. She pushed her way over to the girl. Linda hesitated for a moment in front of the girl, then smiled a little, shyly, and handed her the present. “Happy graduation,” she said and walked away.
I’ll always remember the expression on that girl’s face. At first it was puzzlement. I could painfully read her thoughts. And then she started crying. Silently, to herself. And she walked out the door of the school.
That night I went home and cried. I didn’t really know why. But it hurt to think of the girl; and I hoped with everything in me that I would be able to feel for people like Linda did. And that things would get better for the girl. I wonder if she’s still crying.

Recently on a flight home, I found myself next to Steve, who shared with me parts of his personal story. He had graduated from high school, entered the U.S. Army as a communications specialist at 18 years old, and soon began working at the White House, providing communications support to the President of the United States. From age 18 to 26, he served two U.S. Presidents. His stories were fascinating!
“Steve,” I said, “you have to write these stories down for your posterity! They need to have these stories firsthand from your perspective.” He agreed.
Then the Spirit prompted me to ask him what he knew about his ancestors. Steve knew plenty about his mother’s side, including a story of how his family had once eaten dinner with Abraham Lincoln while he had been campaigning through the countryside during the 1860 U.S. presidential election.
He knew very little about his father’s side, however. He really wanted to know more. I pulled out my phone and opened the FamilySearch app. “Steve, we can find your family right now!”
I connected to the in-flight Wi-Fi. I rested my phone on the tray table in front of me so we could both see. We searched FamilyTree. Within minutes we were both staring at his great-grandfather’s marriage certificate to his great-grandmother.
“That’s them!” he said. “I remember her last name now!”
The spirit of excitement poured over both of us. We worked on building profiles for his lesser-known ancestors for the next 45 minutes. He asked me to promise him that we would continue searching together in Colorado. We exchanged contact information as the plane was landing.
Here we were, flying 30,000 feet (9,144 m) in the air, with a device as small as my hand, searching for a man and a woman married 100 years ago who had been lost to him and his family. Incredible! But we found them. Families were linked. Stories were remembered. Feelings of gratitude were felt for the technology and the tools. It was nothing short of a miracle.
Jonathan Petty, Colorado, USA
Photograph from Getty Images

Late one Monday night when my husband and I were busily working in our home, our seven-year-old son, Sergio, appeared. “Well, nobody remembered family home evening,” he said. “I guess you’re not interested.”
My husband had come home late, and he tiredly explained that we had been too busy and still had much to do before we could turn in for the night. At that we continued with our work.
After a few moments we realized Sergio was reading his illustrated Book of Mormon Stories reader all by himself. My husband and I looked at each other and silently agreed that, even if it was late, we shouldn’t deny ourselves the chance to hold family home evening.
When we went into the living room, Sergio told us in all seriousness that we didn’t need to be concerned because he had already started his “individual home evening” and had sung a hymn, said a prayer, and now he was giving the lesson. We stayed and listened as our boy talked about the First Vision.
That night our son was a powerful missionary to us, testifying of the importance of family home evening. My husband and I realized that often we try to teach principles that we are not completely willing to obey. What a wonderful experience we would have missed if we had not participated in that individual home evening.
Cecila Lozada, Maranga Ward, Lima Perú Maranga Stake

My interest in the Church had been sparked the winter before, and with the help of a friend, I began receiving the missionary discussions at her home.
After my fifth discussion with the missionaries, I went to church. That Sunday was fast Sunday, and during the testimony meeting I had an overwhelming feeling of peace and warmth. I had never felt so much love in one room. That day, my testimony of the Church started to grow.
A few weeks later, I went to my first Mutual activity. The people there were so welcoming, and their actions set them apart from the other kids I knew at school. It was a fun activity that added to my fledgling testimony.
I had started to feel like I was on my way to building a strong gospel foundation, but my aunt’s visit really shook me up. Since I had promised to read her book, I did. I decided that reading the book couldn’t do much harm. Boy, was I wrong.
After reading the book I was confused and sad and didn’t know where to turn. To make matters worse, a friend of mine encouraged me to read more material that was critical of the Church. I found that much of the literature had little or nothing to do with the Church, and little of it made any sense. Now I had more questions than ever.
In search of some answers, my friend and I went to the temple visitor’s center. Two missionaries showed us videos and bore their testimonies. I asked them all the questions I had about the books I had read. The missionaries answered every single one.
Shortly after my experience on the temple grounds, I received my first priesthood blessing. The special feeling I had experienced in my first testimony meeting returned. I was awestruck by the power of the Spirit.
Finally, it seemed everything was getting back on track, except for one thing. My mom was trying hard to talk me out of going to seminary. Although it was difficult, I stood my ground. Seminary is important to me.
I can now relate to the pioneers who traveled across the country to Utah so they could practice their religion. I used to think, “Why would anyone give up that much just for a religion?” Now I know.
I know the Church is true, and I have been able to build my testimony ten times stronger through prayer and studying the scriptures.
Because of this trial of my faith, I have learned not to take the valuable messages of the gospel for granted. I can’t be baptized until I’m 18, and even though three years seems a long time to wait, I am happy to have the time to prepare. I cannot deny the feelings that the Church and the scriptures give me, and I cannot deny what I almost lost forever—my testimony of the gospel.

As a youth I had many opportunities to perform baptisms for the dead in the San Diego California Temple. Though I always had a good experience, one trip in particular stands out in my mind.
I was 16, and my little sister had just turned 12 and was making her first trip to do baptisms for the dead. Since it was her first time, we decided to walk around the outside of the temple after we finished.
The temple grounds have a couple of lookout points on one side, so we walked over there. Because the San Diego Temple is situated next to a busy highway, when you stand at a lookout point, you actually look down at the freeway.
Standing on the temple’s higher ground that day gave me a new perspective on life. I was looking down at the world with its whizzing cars, crowded shopping centers, and graffiti-covered road signs.
It was then that the thought came to my mind: “You don’t want to be a part of that; it’s not what life is about.” I had always been taught that the purpose of life is to return to live with our Heavenly Father and become like Him. I knew I didn’t need the things of the world to accomplish that purpose.
I turned around and looked at the beautiful temple, and I was grateful for the knowledge of the gospel and the perspective it gave me. I knew that in the midst of the chaotic and treacherous world, I had found higher ground to stand on.
That day at the temple I promised my Heavenly Father that I would always stand on His side and not the world’s. No matter what the world throws at us, we can overcome it by keeping the covenants we have made and by standing in holy places (see D&C 87:8).