Gospel Story Finder

Splash!
I dived through the water and swam around behind the boat, trying to catch the breath the cold water pushed out of my lungs. Actually, it felt good. The air above the river was hot and heavy, and I needed that sudden jolt to wake me up and prepare me for my first ski run of the day.
My first ski run, and possibly my last. Not only of the day, but of the year—two years, in fact. I would be leaving for my mission in about two weeks, and I had been spending the entire summer cramming in a lot of activities that would be prohibited once I entered the mission field.
I figured that if I spent enough time skiing, swimming, dating, dancing, and doing a thousand other things I wouldn’t be able to do as a missionary, I’d get it all out of my system and be ready to settle down once I reached the MTC. I hardly even looked at the scriptures. They weren’t going to change any in the month before I left, and I would have plenty of time to study them over the next two years. I would soon be devoting 24 hours a day to the service of others, so I had decided to devote the preceding month to the service of me.
I signaled to Kent, who was driving the boat, that my ski was adjusted and ready. He smiled, nodded, and began to accelerate. Getting up on the river, where the current was particularly strong, was not easy, but I managed, and I was soon gliding across the water’s surface. The wind pressed on my face. I closed my eyes and smiled up toward the sun. What a wonderful feeling.
But suddenly my ski struck something hard, and I crashed face down in the water. For some reason, I was being dragged rapidly toward shore. It took me a second to realize that I’d run into a jumble of logs and branches that were floating downstream, and my ski was hopelessly entangled. The current was pulling me toward the shore at the bend in the river, where a mass of sharp rocks and branches had piled up. “If the current drags me into that mess, I’m through,” I thought as I frantically tried to free myself from the entangled ski.
My cousins in the boat quickly realized the danger I was in, and circled back around to try to fish me out. Unfortunately though, the boat got caught in the current too, and I found myself sandwiched between the boat and the rapidly approaching pile of debris. Sharp branches and jagged rocks were only a few feet, a few inches, from my eyes, my throat, my chest. If only I could dive under the boat and put it between me and the ragged shore. I tried, but the buoyancy of my ski vest made that impossible.
I began praying desperately. It was the only alternative left. Immediately some force, like a huge hand, thrust me down into the water and under the boat. I was glad the boat had a jet engine, so I didn’t need to deal with a propeller. My ski had finally been wrenched from my foot, and with the new mobility that gave me, I was able to push out from under the boat and emerge on the other side, just in time to see it crash into the debris.
I could hear my cousins shouting and crying, sure that I had been skewered by a branch and was caught under the water. I shakily called out to them, and with great relief, they pulled me back into the boat.
I huddled in my towel and mulled over what had just happened as we headed back to the sandy beach where we had started. My mission had almost been finished before it began. How important the work must be! I felt the Lord had truly sent angels to be round about me, to bear me up, as it says in Doctrine and Covenants 84:88. I was grateful to have been spared to do his work.
It was then that I understood that my preparation tactics had been all wrong. If the work was that important, I shouldn’t be out grabbing at all the excitement I could before I left. I should be trying to embrace all the scripture study, all the prayer, all the service I could. Of course it wouldn’t hurt to get a little fun in, but I should have begun long ago to practice what I was going to preach.
I would definitely have to change my schedule for the next two weeks, and I’d have to work harder in a different way, than I’d ever dreamed. That realization was a cold, hard one, but actually, it felt good. I needed the sudden jolt to prepare me for the next two years of my life.

I was recently working on a project about body image and the media. I visited a local mall to interview dressing room attendants, who frequently see how people view their body image, to discuss my project. However, when I got there I started to feel self-conscious. I lost courage and felt like I could approach them only if I were prettier or skinnier. So instead, I thought I’d take some pictures of advertisements throughout the mall. But then I started feeling too self-conscious for that, too. I felt like people would judge me or think I was weird.
When I left the mall, I had made no progress on my project. The car ride home was long and miserable because the whole time I was just wishing I looked different. Suddenly I realized that the visit was completely related to my project. Even though I didn’t talk to anyone or take any pictures, I left the mall feeling worthless. I could see how I had allowed the media’s overbearing influence to overwhelm me. But it doesn’t need to be that way.

In 1941 the Gila River overflowed and flooded the Duncan Valley in Arizona. A young stake president by the name of Spencer W. Kimball met with his counselors, assessed the damage, and sent a telegram to Salt Lake City asking for a large sum of money.

Instead of sending money, President Heber J. Grant sent three men: Henry D. Moyle, Marion G. Romney, and Harold B. Lee. They visited with President Kimball and taught him an important lesson: “This isn’t a program of ‘give me,’” they said. “This is a program of ‘self-help.’”

Many years later, President Kimball said: “It would have been an easy thing, I think, for the Brethren to have sent us [the money,] and it wouldn’t have been too hard to sit in my office and distribute it; but what a lot of good came to us as we had hundreds of [our own] go to Duncan and build fences and haul the hay and level the ground and do all the things that needed doing. That is self-help.”10

By following the Lord’s way, the members of President Kimball’s stake not only had their immediate needs met, but they also developed self-reliance, alleviated suffering, and grew in love and unity as they served each other.

After being sealed to their families or being baptized for the dead in the Washington Temple, several boys and girls wrote their impressions:
“I would like to bear my testimony that I know that this Church is true and I’m glad to be a member. When my dad wasn’t a member of the Church I thought that we would never be sealed. My dad grew stronger in the Church, and he was baptized last year. Now we are sealed in the temple and I’m very happy! Now I can live with my family for time and eternity. I love my family very much.”
Sylvia Haarsma

Ana walked past the fishing nets drying along the shore. She was on her way to Maria’s home to ask her friend for help. When she arrived, Maria was sitting under a tree, embroidering a shawl. Ana sat down next to her. After admiring the embroidery, she asked, “Maria, ¿qu‚ es un brownie? (Maria, what is a brownie?) A friend of mine slipped on the street and broke her leg, and I want to give her something to make her feel better. She told me once that brownies were her favorite food. Mama said that if I found out how, I could make some for her, but I don’t even know what a brownie is.”
“Who is this friend who likes brownies?” Maria asked.
“Her name is Hermana (Sister) Anderson. She’s a missionary from the United States. She and her esposo (husband) came to Peru to teach people about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She taught our family the gospel, and we were baptized last month.”
“Why did you join a foreign church?” Maria asked.
“It’s not a foreign church. People all over the world are members. There are thousands of members here in Peru. Senor Garcia is one.”
“¡Senor Garcia!” Maria’s eyes widened in surprise. “But he lives right here in our town and owns the best boat!” (Maria’s and Ana’s fathers worked on a boat that caught pescados [fish]. Senor Garcia was well liked in their town because he was fair and honest with his workers.)
“We didn’t know that he belonged to the Church till Hermana Anderson took us there one Sunday. He greeted us at the door and helped us feel comfortable. After that he had the missionaries teach us in his home on the hill.”
“Wow! Are there others in our town that belong to your church?”
“Yes. You know, we are so happy now that we’re members that I want to do something special for the missionaries that helped us. How do I find out about brownies?”
“We could ask my mother,” Maria suggested. They went inside to ask her, but she just shook her head. She had never heard of brownies either. “Why don’t you ask Senorita Consuelo?” she suggested. “A teacher knows about many things.”
The girls ran down the path past the nets to Senorita Consuelo’s home. When she came to the door, they asked together, “¿Qu‚ es un brownie?”
She smiled her twinkly smile at them and invited them in. After they were seated, she told them, “I’ve never heard of brownies, but I do have a good English dictionary. Let’s look it up.”
Together they searched the dictionary pages for the meaning of brownie. One definition read: “a small, flat, chocolate cake, often made with nuts.”
“A flat, chocolate cake,” Ana repeated happily. “We have some chocolate at home, but the dictionary doesn’t say what kind of nuts! Would any nuts do?”
Senorita Consuelo thought for a moment. “I think so. But why do you want to make a brownie?”
The girls explained that Hermana Anderson had broken her leg and was in bed.
“It’s sad to be sick so far from home,” Senorita Consuelo said. “I’ll help you make a brownie and take it to her.”
They walked to Ana’s house, and Mama helped them find a recipe for chocolate cake and alter it so that the cake would be flatter than a regular cake. Then they added nuts to the batter. When the cake came out of the oven, it looked very strange. The girls started to giggle when they saw the lumpy, lopsided cake.
“I can’t see why anyone would want to eat a brownie!” Maria said.
“A real brownie probably isn’t like this,” Ana said, laughing harder and harder, till the tears rolled down her cheeks. Senorita Consuelo and Mama started laughing too. When Ana finally stopped laughing, she said, “Maybe we should make arroz con leche (rice pudding) for her, instead. It’s easy to make that.”
“If she’s as nice as you say, she will appreciate your efforts to make her happier,” Senorita Consuelo counseled. “Let’s take her the brownie.”
When Hermano (Brother) Anderson opened the door of their casa (house), he greeted them warmly and immediately invited them in to visit Hermana Anderson. Ana gave the flat cake to her and explained, “It’s supposed to be a brownie. You said that brownies were your favorite food.”
“How thoughtful of you!” Hermana Anderson beamed at the small group. “I haven’t had one since we left Chicago. Hermano Anderson,” she directed, “please bring some plates and forks so that we can eat my brownie!”
She cut the cake and served a portion to everyone. Ana and Maria and Senorita Consuelo held their breath while Hermana Anderson took her first bite.
“That’s the best brownie I’ve ever eaten!” Sister Anderson told them. Ana and her friends took a bite too. It tasted good, even if it did look funny! Soon everyone was relaxed and enjoying themselves. It was fun to get to know each other over a Peruvian brownie.

This story took place in the USA.
Josiah was excited. Today was Daddy’s birthday! Mama put colorful streamers in the kitchen. She made a special birthday cake too.
“We should give him presents,” Josiah said.
“Yeah!” said his little sister, Madeline. “But what?”
“I have an idea.” Josiah went to the shed. He took a few pieces of wood and glued them together to make a tiny bench.
“I picked Daddy some flowers from his garden!” Madeline held up the flowers. “Do you think he’ll like them?”
Josiah nodded yes. “I can’t wait for him to see his presents!”
That afternoon, Josiah and Madeline sang “Happy Birthday” and ate cake with Daddy.
“Time for presents!” Josiah said. He gave Daddy his gift.
Daddy unwrapped the paper. “Wow! You did a great job. Thank you!” Daddy gave Josiah a hug.
Then Madeline gave Daddy the flowers.
“Thank you so much!” Daddy smiled. “These are beautiful.”
Soon it was time to clean up. “Josiah, can you help clear the table?” Mama asked.
“Sure,” said Josiah. He grinned and carried the dishes to the sink.
“I can help too,” said Madeline.
Daddy smiled big. “I feel so happy when you two are helping and being kind to each other. I know it makes Jesus happy too. That is the best present of all!”
Later Josiah and Madeline played with their toys. Josiah made a tall tower out of building blocks. It was almost as tall as he was! But then Madeline knocked it over.
“Hey!” Josiah said. “You messed up my tower!” He took a toy from Madeline.
“That’s mine!” Madeline yelled.
Daddy came over. He was frowning. He reminded them to take turns with their toys.
When Daddy left, Josiah asked, “Did you see Daddy’s face? He looked sad.”
“Why was he sad?” asked Madeline.
“He said the best present was for us to be kind,” Josiah said. “But we forgot.”
“Oh.” Madeline looked at the floor. “I’m sorry for knocking over your tower.”
“It’s OK,” Josiah said. “Sorry for getting mad. Let’s be kind for the rest of the day.”
“But what if we forget?” Madeline asked.
“Then we have to say sorry and try again to be nice,” said Josiah.
Josiah and Madeline cleaned up the blocks. Then they played a new game. When Daddy walked by, he smiled.
“I think we did it!” Madeline whispered to Josiah. “We gave Daddy a great present!”
Josiah smiled. “Yeah, we did. And it’s a present for Jesus too!”
How did Daddy feel when Josiah was kind to Madeline?
Illustrations by Jeff Harvey

While I was walking off the playground one late afternoon, after several weeks of helping out at the school, the principal pulled me off to the side.

The children were playing on the playground equipment they had earned by collecting Campbell’s Soup labels.

“See that little girl over there?” he asked, pointing to a skinny, olive-skinned, dark-haired girl sitting on the steps.

I nodded.

“She came to us last year from the public school system. The teachers said she was slow, uncooperative and noncommunicative. No one could reach her to teach her. So they sent her here as a last resort. She has really come out of her shell here with these kids.”

I noticed the girl was hugging a young student after he had fallen down.

“But she won’t respond to any adults. As soon as one of the teachers tries to engage her in something, she clams up and stares and won’t respond.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“Because we’ve tried everything we know and she still won’t respond. I’ve even worked with her myself.”

Then the principal paused.

“And there’s something else,” he said. “I was going through her records today. When she was tested—when she first entered school—she had a very high I.Q. By the time they sent her to us, her I.Q. had dropped to an infantile level. Her hands are deformed, and she has a wooden leg. The records report that she was treated badly by the other public students. But the kids here don’t make fun of her. They adore her. She is everyone’s second mother.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked again.

“I thought maybe you could reach her somehow.”

“I’ll try.”

From that time on I made it a point to observe this little girl every chance I got. I read her records and found out her name was Monica. She was 12 years old. A mother was listed on her records but no father. I noticed Monica spent a lot of time by the piano in the classroom. Because her fingers were deformed and small, she would sometimes start banging on the keys with her palms until all the other children were laughing and stomping their feet. At this point, the teacher would drag her away from the piano and take her to the principal’s office.

I watched the teachers and aids approach Monica with games, papers, blocks, and books. But she wouldn’t respond in any way.

Sometimes I’d sit down at the piano and play a couple of tunes. Monica would stand near the piano and listen. Once I noticed her squatting down at the side of the piano and placing her ear up against the wood.

One afternoon as I was playing, she came over to the bench and sat down next to me. Then she pushed my hands off the piano and began pounding on the keys with her palms. I gently took her hand and rolled it into a fist. Then I guided her hand to the piano and showed her how to play a simple tune that my mother had taught me as a child. It was a tune that she could play by rolling a fist down the black keys.

Monica quickly caught on and played the tune over and over. From that moment, she seemed to sense that I was her friend.

One morning during recess, I noticed Monica crouching beside a bush near the entrance to the school. I walked up behind her and could see that she was studying a chrysalis hanging precariously on a twig. The butterfly inside was almost free, struggling desperately to free its wings.

“You know,” I said whispering next to her ear, “that used to be just a funny looking caterpillar. Now look at it. In a few minutes it will be a beautiful butterfly.”

Monica didn’t say a word. In a moment the butterfly was separating its damp wings, and the gentle breeze soon dried the bright orange and black pattern. Moments later the breeze lifted the delicate wing expanse and the butterfly was gone. Monica cupped her hands and with them she followed the butterfly into the air as if attempting to follow.

Then she turned and looked at me. She looked me directly in the eye. Deep, dark, and brown, her eyes were wet and soft and imploring. In that brief instant, I knew. Monica was not mentally retarded. She was trapped somewhere deep inside.

“I want …” she said.

Then her eyes darted to the ground, and she ran up the stone stairs and into the school.

I suddenly realized that Monica had found some kind of security and love with the mentally retarded children that she could not find in the public school system and at home. Her infantile behavior was simply her way of making sure she could stay here. If she responded to any adult and showed her intelligence, she knew she would be put back into a system where she had been abused.

Weeks grew into months, and soon Monica and I were good friends. But whenever I questioned her about her home, she would avoid the questions and change the subject.

“I like the way you smile at me,” Monica said to me one day. “My mother never smiles at me.”

Later I found out from the principal that Monica lived alone with her mother. Her mother was on welfare and spent most of her days sleeping and most of her nights going from bar to bar. She often had different men living with her. Much of the time there was little or no food at the house.

When Monica had progressed sufficiently that the principal thought she was ready to return to the public schools, he asked me to speak to her about it.

After I talked to Monica, she pulled away from me and told me she would do or act any way she had to to stay at the school.

I spent a lot of sleepless nights wondering what to do. Finally, one morning it came to me. That afternoon I talked to Monica about my idea. She agreed enthusiastically, so I went to the principal.

We worked out a plan where Monica could obtain the regular public school textbooks and materials for her age level and remain at the special school. Then Monica would spend each day doing her regular school work with a little help from the teacher and student aids.

The teachers and principal were amazed at how quickly she grasped her subjects and how quickly she progressed.

My course work became more and more difficult at college, and my hours at Monica’s school became less and less.

Four years later, after my graduation, I walked down to the special school to say good-bye. Most of the same students were there, but they were older now. Monica had developed into a strikingly beautiful young lady.

She had gone through her class work so quickly and well that she had taken her college entrance exams earlier that spring and had been admitted to college on scholarship at the age of 16 for the next fall.

Monica’s teacher was still telling Kenny to “Shh!” when he told his corny jokes. The principal was a little balder and plumper.

The children gave me a going-away party with cake, streamers, hugs, and tears. Monica proudly showed me her college scholarship and admission papers.

The principal put his arm around Monica’s shoulder and said, “You know I’ll be retiring in a few years. I think Monica would make a great replacement for me, don’t you?”

I don’t know what happened to Monica after that. After college I moved away, married, and had children of my own. But I have often thought about her.

In January 2022, over 300 Saints gathered at the Umuahia Nigeria Stake centre for an award night organized in deep appreciation for the enormous contributions of the modern-day pioneers and Saints in the stake. As part of that celebration, plaques and letters were presented by the stake presidency after assigned young single adults read out short descriptions of the service lives of the awardees. The choir sang hymns of gratitude, pioneers shared their heartfelt testimonies and stories of consecrated efforts, the less active members and friends were invited and the history of the stake was presented. The level of socialization among Saints was on this great day very historic and all inclusive.
The then-stake president, Samuel Ekpolo, shared thoughts with us on what motivated his presidency to honor these Saints. He said, “The memories of the great sacrifices of the early Saints, the Nauvoo story, their efforts in establishing the kingdom, even the Nauvoo Temple, despite the many persecutions and attacks inspired deep thoughts of how the local Saints sacrifice their little possessions, abandon their personal and family pleasure to build, establish and restore Zion in Umuahia. Although we may not have their names in the worldwide history of the Church, they are indeed the Nauvoo people of our time whose selfless efforts in magnifying their callings and talents are yielding the unstoppable growth of the kingdom of God in Umuahia, a place where Zion hitherto fled but now restored to her beauty. It was only fair that the rising generation in the years to come may one day know by the records made of this celebration, how the Lord honors His faithful servants. Indeed, beyond appreciation for their labors and consecration, that they may be remembered as instruments in the hand of the Lord during our Nauvoo time in gathering Israel from both sides of the veil”.
There was an outpouring of powerful emotions when some awardees were asked how they felt receiving awards. Here are a few of them:
“As a pioneer, I was very excited that for 40 years of my membership, this is the first time I received an award. I found much evidence of the Lord’s blessings resting upon African Saints, many of whom had been so faithful and patient for so long. We are beginning to have a vision of the important role we need to fulfil in the Lord’s kingdom.” — Brother Kalu Ichie
“It was great and an honor receiving such award. It really motivates me to work in the vineyard of the Lord anytime, anyday.” — Brother Ukauwa Chimaobi
“I indeed was speechless, sufficiently humbled and indebtedly grateful that Elohim chose me to be used in promoting music in the Umuahia Nigeria Stake of Zion, the gathering place of the Saints, even Israel.” — Sister Linda Ajah
We are indeed so grateful for the example of the Umuahia Nigeria Stake in aligning its efforts to the Africa West Area goals by celebrating and honoring the Saints. That was a great and faith-promoting Church history activity in our area that blessed lives, reactivated many, provided missionary opportunities and inspired greater commitment among Saints, especially the rising generation who were also awardees.

Our marriage date was set for November 25, which was four and a half months from July 6, the date we became engaged. I thought it proper to ask the Lord during that time whether it was right for me to marry Rhonda. My prayers were frequent, and I think heartfelt. “Is Rhonda the person I should marry?”
It was a troubling time for me because there was no answer. I remember very strong answers to prayers about whether I should serve a mission. Heaven seemed close and accessible throughout my mission. Why was it silent now when I was asking the most important question of my life? “Should I marry this person?”
I thought about it carefully. I knew that I loved her. I asked for advice from various people, including my poor religion professor. But I did not feel that I had an answer from my Heavenly Father. Why? Why wouldn’t He answer me?

Finally, the day came. We made the hour-long drive to the Los Angeles Temple, where she received her endowments. Then we were taken to a beautiful sealing room and knelt at the holy altar.
The sealer offered a few words of spiritual instruction and encouragement. Then he began to pronounce some of the most sacred words to be found here in mortality. I looked into her eyes. She was smiling. I began to cry. In that moment, I experienced some of the most powerful and profound spiritual feelings and assurances of my entire life. I knew four things.
I knew that the Gospel was true.
I knew that the promises of the temple ordinances were true.
I knew that we were worthy to be there in the Lord’s house kneeling at the altar.
And I knew that I had heaven’s blessing and support in marrying this daughter of God.

Now in the forty-plus years since that Tuesday morning, Rhonda and I have traveled many miles along life’s journey, and we have walked the covenant path together.
I have learned a lot about what it means to cleave to someone.
I have learned about what it means to partner and to counsel and to serve together.
And I have also learned and have yet to learn just how critical it is to let go of the stuff that interferes— the selfishness, the pride, and the vanity.

I think now I finally understand why my four and a half months of prayer about marrying Rhonda seemed to go unanswered. I also understand why I failed to have clear enough spiritual vision to see the lengthy list of miracles that brought me to her, only some of which I have shared with you today.
I was asking the wrong question. I already knew that we loved each other. I already knew that we could be friends and that our friendship was devoid of the poison that characterizes unhealthy relationships. Instead of asking whether she was right for me, I should have been asking whether I was right for her. Instead of dwelling so much upon what I was getting, I should have been thinking a lot more about what I could be giving.

In my own experience I will recall a mother who visited her bishop. She said, “We have given my daughter permission to date, and she is just 15. She is more mature than other girls her age.” Physically she was more mature than other girls her age, and the mother felt totally justified in letting this young lady date. Of course, the bishop counseled very strongly against it, but to no avail. Within a short time the daughter came in alone to see the bishop, heartbroken and carrying a burden of guilt that a person so young—any person, in fact—should never have to carry.

How foolish we are to suppose that when the prophets speak—President Kimball, Elder Petersen, President McKay, President Lee, and all of the latter-day prophets have spoken on this subject—how foolish we are to ignore their counsel and advice and to make decisions contrary to theirs. My personal counsel to our youth would be to follow the prophet, obey his counsel, walk in the footsteps he would have you follow, and remain clean and pure. In due time you will have the opportunity to date, and at that time, hopefully, you will be mentally mature and able to handle the new emotions and feelings that swell inside the normal young person’s physical body. The odds for remaining clean and pure and going worthily to the sacred altars in the temple, never having transgressed the moral code, very much favor those who do not date until they are 16.

Now, my dear young friends, the Lord doesn’t always tell us why. We simply get direction and sometimes have to trust. Often your parents will not be able to tell you why they feel you shouldn’t date until you are 16; the bishop cannot give you all of the reasons. All they know is that they feel at peace in their heart with this decision, and that is probably the greatest answer that can be given. Follow their counsel, obey your parents, and know the decisions you make in this very serious matter will have eternal implications.

Satan is desirous of destroying every young person in the Church and frustrating God’s work. This will not happen, for our youth have been given a clear signal. We are confident that as you mature and grow in the gospel you will come to anchor your souls to the Savior. You will find strength beyond anything you have ever known. There will never be a temptation come to you that will be too great to bear. There will always be a way to escape. God will watch over you and bless you; trust in him, be prayerful, study the scriptures, attend your meetings regularly, and choose your friends wisely. Make this a matter of great and significant prayer.

My young friends, all I can say to you is, I feel at peace with this decision in my home. Each family head must make the decision. The Church will not make it. We only offer guidelines.

God bless you always and keep you clean and pure.

This story happened in the USA.
Bjorn looked around at all the big cardboard boxes in his new home. His family had just moved from Argentina to the United States.
It was scary to move so far away. Everything was unfamiliar. But he knew that if he was with his family, everything would be OK.
As Bjorn helped his family unpack, Mami picked up a big box and smiled. “This one has our Christmas ornaments in it!” she said.
Bjorn smiled. He loved Christmas and was excited to celebrate it with his family. He was still nervous about living in a new place, but knowing that it was almost Christmas cheered him up.
A few days later, Bjorn’s family sat down together for a home evening lesson about Christmas. Papi explained that it is a season for giving gifts.
“Yay! Presents!” Bjorn said.
“Yes, getting presents is fun,” Mami said. “But it’s even more important to give gifts to the Savior.”
“How do we give presents to Jesus?” asked Bjorn.
“When we serve others like Jesus did, it makes Him happy,” said Mami.
The next morning Bjorn heard a knock at the front door. He jumped out of bed and ran to see who it was. But when Papi and Mami opened the door, nobody was there. Instead, Mami picked up a small, shiny gift from the doorstep.
“Where did it come from?” Bjorn asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mami said. “Maybe an angel!”
Bjorn’s eyes got wide. “Like an angel from heaven?”
Papi smiled. “No. Sometimes we call people angels when they do kind things for us. It’s like they are Heavenly Father’s helpers here on earth.”
Bjorn jumped in the air. “I want to be an angel too! I want to do kind things for others. That will be my Christmas gift to Jesus.”
“Great idea!” Papi said. “Jesus will love your gift.”
For the rest of the week, Bjorn woke up every morning to find a new gift on the doorstep. He felt so loved when the angels left gifts for his family. He wanted to show his family that he loved them too.
So Bjorn got to work. He secretly prepared gifts for his parents and siblings. He shined Papi’s shoes while he was at work and drew a heart for Mami. Then he wrapped one of his favorite toy cars for his brother. He got bubble gum for his sister.
Carefully, Bjorn wrote the names on each present and placed them under the Christmas tree. He couldn’t wait to see their happy faces! He felt warm inside just thinking about it.
On Christmas Day, Bjorn gave each family member their gift. He was so excited he could hardly sit still.
When Papi saw his shiny shoes, he said, “Wow, thank you, Bjorn! These look wonderful.”
Bjorn’s brother and sister opened their presents, then jumped up to give Bjorn hugs. “Thanks!” they said.
Mami smiled when she unwrapped the picture Bjorn had drawn for her. “You’ve helped make this Christmas so special, Bjorn. Thank you for being our little angel,” she said.
Bjorn felt happy inside. He knew that showing love to his family was the perfect present to give Jesus!

But that lesson took me a while to figure out. Throughout my life, happiness was hard to come by. In my teenage years I sought exercise to bring me happiness. I worked out every day. I did cardio. I lifted weights, and I thought I looked pretty fit. But doing what I thought I should did not bring the promised happiness.

In my twenties I thought that maybe if I didn’t have to worry about money I would be happy. So I worked. I saved and then I invested, and then the returns came. I am not saying I could buy an island or a private jet, but I didn’t have to worry each month if I could pay my bills. Even though I had fun things and could buy cool shoes, again the promised happiness of doing what I thought I should did not come.

So I turned to the gospel of Jesus Christ for happiness and fulfillment. I diligently studied my scriptures. I faithfully said my prayers. I tried to be perfect. But even living an obedient life and doing as I thought I should did not bring me the promised happiness. I began to believe that I was just not good enough, smart enough, or pretty enough. Worst of all, I began to think God did not love me. But my thoughts were deceiving me.

In college I was introduced to Dr. Richard A. Heaps, a psychologist here at BYU. He taught me that the happiness I sought wouldn’t just come; I needed to create it. He also taught me that controlling my thoughts would enable me to take the actions necessary to create the happiness I wanted. He taught me that every thought and action I had each day needed to lead me toward the happiness I desired or the things I wanted in life. It took some time, but I began, as Alma said, to have “my soul . . . filled with joy as exceeding as was my pain!” (Alma 36:20). I also learned that to think and act for myself, I could use my agency—as we all can—to build an armor to protect myself against the devil’s greatest tools of self-defeat, discouragement, and the belief that I just wasn’t born good enough for God’s love.

The Fort Union cemetery is one of the oldest in the Salt Lake Valley. For literally decades, various youth groups have sponsored cleanup efforts, but after a year or so the weeds would grow back and the cemetery would again fall into disrepair.
The Union 14th Ward, Sandy Utah Cottonwood Creek Stake, wanted to change that trend. They wanted to beautify the cemetery permanently. The Young Women and the Young Men of the ward volunteered to take on the project for the summer. They needed to raise money and obtain donations to add a sprinkling system, a black-topped driveway, electrical wiring for lighting, and grass sod. The youth rolled up their sleeves and went to work. They baked hundreds of strawberry pies for sale and staged other fund raisers. They contacted local businesses for donations of labor and materials and solicited contributions from those interested in the project.
Under the direction of some construction professionals, the youth added the muscle as the physical cleanup began. The cemetery was completed with lawn, landscaping, display area, and benches. Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve presided at the outdoor dedication services. He said, “Joseph Smith said the measure and test of a people is the way in which they care for their dead.” Indicating the newly redone cemetery, Elder Packer concluded, “Through your work here, you have paid a fitting tribute to your pioneer past.”

Tyler loved having visitors. His family had signed up to help feed the missionaries, and tonight they were coming to dinner. Mom had promised that he could sit next to them.
At the table, Tyler felt shy and didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be a missionary someday, so he listened and watched carefully. He wanted to remember how missionaries act. He looked at their shiny shoes, white shirts, and straight ties. Then he noticed something on their shirt pockets. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to Elder Snow’s pocket.
“My name tag,” Elder Snow replied, holding it up a little.
“‘Elder Snow,’” Tyler read. “‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’ Do all the missionaries have name tags?”
“I think so,” the other missionary, Elder Millburn, replied. “We want everyone to know that we are missionaries for the Church.”
“I always make sure to put my name tag on,” Elder Snow added. “I want everybody to know that I believe in Jesus Christ.”
After the missionaries left, Tyler told Mom, “I’m going to make a name tag. I want to wear one so that people will know that I believe in Jesus Christ.”

Ifoni Tapueluelu was a little lonely. He was the only boy in a family of sisters. His sisters were growing up and developing other friends and interests. He needed a friend.
One day Ifoni, then about age 13, was swimming near the bridge on the beautiful island of Vava‘u, one of a group of northern islands in the nation of Tonga. Other children were swimming there too, and Ifoni noticed a boy—Peter—who was alone and looking just about as lonely as Ifoni felt. Ifoni saw Peter and thought, He doesn’t have a friend, but he needs one. And I need a friend. Soon they were inseparable—except when Ifoni went to church.
As Peter and Ifoni became closer, Ifoni naturally invited Peter to do everything he was doing—going to Mutual, participating in seminary, and attending Sunday meetings. At first Peter knew virtually nothing about the Church. But he had a good friend who was eager to teach him.
And Ifoni knew that Peter needed the same blessings in his life.
Peter liked going to Mutual activities, but he didn’t always want to go to church on Sundays. “Every Sunday Ifoni would stand outside the house and wait for me,” Peter says. “He didn’t give up.”
Then Peter’s testimony began to grow. Seminary was a great help. “One day the teacher explained about how to resist Satan and endure the trials that come every day,” Peter says. “Doctrine and Covenants 10:5 talks about praying hard so you can resist temptation. That scripture always stays in my mind.”
Now, as 17-year-olds, Ifoni and Peter are looking forward to serving missions. And they will be great missionaries. They see possibilities where others see difficulties. For example, more than half the 15,000 people in Vava‘u are Church members, Peter points out. Then he asks, “Don’t you think it is possible to help the other half join the Church?” Immediately, there seem to be obstacles to such a widespread conversion. But one look at the faces of Peter and Ifoni stops such doubts. They have faith. And with such faith, anything is possible.
And that is exactly what Ifoni did when he saw someone in need of a friend. His friendship changed the course of Peter’s life. And the result? Two friends, both stronger in the gospel than they would have been separately.

The samurai were the military nobility of medieval and early-modern Japan. The Japanese still talk about one of them, Ry?ma Sakamoto, who died in 1867. One of the reasons he is still so popular is because he always kept a positive attitude. He did not fear anyone or anything. He went anywhere he was needed. Inspired by the ideal that all men are created equal, he made every effort to establish a new government. But he was assassinated, and even as he was stabbed many times by another samurai’s sword, he didn’t give up. He tried to stand up and walk forward. This is a very famous story in Japan.

Those who know me know that I enjoy the game of hockey. I would like to share a valuable lesson that I learned from playing hockey that applies to life and more particularly to watching and resisting temptations. While growing up and in college, I played the position of goalie. To score the opposing team often seeks to distract the goalie to increase their chances of scoring. They send someone to the front of the net to block the eyesight of the goalie. They don't want the goalie to see the puck. If the goalie loses sight of the puck, they have a better chance of scoring. They often subtly bump into the goalie and try to agitate the goalie. Sometimes the opponents make harsh comments to discourage and try to intimidate the goalie so they lose their mental focus. A good goalie learns to keep a determined eye on the puck and ignore the distractions. At times the goalie has to get low and look between the legs, or lean left or right to look around opponents standing in their way. I learned early that I could slash or hit the defender and try to push at him and discourage him from standing in front of me, but I quickly realized I was merely confirming to him that he was indeed agitating me. In fact, these attempts on my part actually stirred him up and encouraged him to intensify his attempts to block my vision.
Like a goalie in hockey we must keep our concentration and focus on the puck or the goal of living with our heavenly father. We can't let ourselves be screened, we have to be active and maintain focus on our goals. We also should not spend time agitating or encouraging temptation into our life. In addition to screening the goalie and blocking his view, the opponent will try to get the goalie out of position. They do this by either passing to teammates quickly or moving the puck from side to side, thereby getting the goalie out of position and open up holes in his defense. If a goalie is not ready and set in his position, it is harder to block a shot and stop the puck. The goalie has to constantly be aware of his surroundings, anticipate where the puck could go, and use quick reflexes to respond with a practiced reaction. Resisting the evils of the world requires great amounts of anticipation and practicing in our minds how to react if and when situations arise.

She is eight-year-old Dorinelis Francisca, who was born in a home where the principles of the gospel are lived.
Neither Dorinelis nor her parents imagined the conditions of the world when they set the goal that she would be baptized on Saturday, May 16, 2020, after she turned eight.
“We set the date before the pandemic, but the work can’t be stopped even during a pandemic. We are very happy and grateful, and she is even happier because she knows how important baptism is,” says her father, Victor Cepeda, who baptized her.
“I know that this work is true, it is a work of miracles and, if we are loyal and faithful in keeping the commandments, God will not leave us alone in moments of difficulty,” said Dorinelis excitedly.

One of the most touching events I have ever witnessed took place at the auction three years ago. We had sat most of the day on aluminum bleachers, listening to the auctioneer’s bark, the crowd’s babble, and the animals’ bleating, mooing, and squealing. Suddenly we heard another sound—the wind pelting a freezing rain against the building.
Soon, in addition to parents and extended family attending the auction, we had many other people seeking shelter inside the metal livestock pavilion. They were quite surprised to find an auction taking place. Most were from the big city of Las Vegas and had never experienced a real animal auction before. They apparently found the auction entertaining, and a few even bid on animals. Of course, after the auctioneer explained that the price was per pound, the bidding slowed considerably.
Our boys’ pig came up for auction, and I remember feeling quite relieved when it was sold. All I could think of was getting home, away from the people, the noise, and the smell. It was still raining outside, so while I waited for my brother-in-law to get the car, I listened involuntarily to the auctioneer as he started the bidding on lambs.
A young girl brought out her lamb, and the bidding commenced. I don’t remember the exact amount, but I do remember thinking, “That’s a lot of money for a lamb.” Then a most amazing thing happened. The auctioneer explained that the person who had purchased the lamb was donating it back to the little girl to be resold. He went on to explain that this little girl’s father, who normally would have been there with her, was in the hospital. He had cancer, and the prognosis was not good. The family had no medical insurance, and the father was their sole support.
What happened next will burn in my mind and heart forever.
The bidding resumed, and again the little lamb was sold for an unheard-of amount of money. Again the lamb was donated back to be resold. About that time my brother-in-law returned, wet and windblown, but I couldn’t move. I told him something remarkable was happening, and though I tried, I could not stop my tears.
That lamb was sold again and again, and all those people, many of them from the city, were bidding and giving donations for that local family.
As I stood there in amazement, I couldn’t help but think of another lamb—not one that was sold again and again to benefit just one family, but One who allowed Himself to be sacrificed for all of God’s children. It seemed fitting that Easter was just around the corner. The Spirit bore witness to me that day of the significance of sacrifice in behalf of others and the importance of community.

At this critical point in her life, Minerva had two experiences that took her out of the art world. The first experience crystallized her desire for life with a family—specifically, for life with Herman. In a testimony meeting she was listening to a sister speak on the joys of marriage and motherhood. “I thought of all the men I had met in my search for ‘the right one,’” wrote Minerva later. At that moment, she realized that “back on the Idaho desert, herding his cattle and branding his calves was a man more nearly meant for me than anyone else in the world” (unpublished autobiographical sketch, 1937, transcription from handwritten manuscript). Never one to doubt her own judgment, Minerva returned home to Idaho and married Herman.
The other experience helped her to strengthen her feeling that she had a mission as an artist and that she should place her art in the service of her faith. Minerva later recorded how Robert Henri, one of her renowned teachers, asked her, shortly before she left New York, whether any artist had ever told the “great Mormon story.”
“Not to my liking,’ I answered. ‘Good Heavens, girl, what an opportunity. You do it. You’re the one. That’s your birthright. You’ll do it well.’
“I felt that I had been commissioned” (unpublished manuscript, 1947).