Gospel Story Finder

I mention one more example of the incorrect way to accomplish home teaching. President Marion G. Romney, who was a counselor in the First Presidency some years ago, used to tell about his home teacher who once went to the Romney home on a cold winter night. He kept his hat in his hand and shifted nervously when invited to sit down and give his message. As he remained standing, he said, “Well, I’ll tell you, Brother Romney, it’s cold outside, and I left my car engine running so it wouldn’t stop. I just came by so I could tell the bishop I had made my visits.”6
President Ezra Taft Benson, after relating President Romney’s experience in a meeting of priesthood holders, then said, “We can do better than that, brethren—much better!”7 I agree.

Sonia Patrick describes herself as a mouse with a tail on fire running through a dry field. On the streets of Barbados—where the culture swings to a Caribbean beat—she makes sure everyone at the bus stop hears her testimony.
“God comes first,” she said. “I carry Him with me everywhere I go.”
Sister Patrick is among a growing number of members in the Christ Church Branch who have felt the fire of temple and family history work. They have learned firsthand what Elder Richard G. Scott (1928–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “Anywhere you are in the world, with prayer, faith, determination, diligence, and some sacrifice, you can make a powerful contribution.”1
Sister Patrick joined the Church in 2008 after meeting the missionaries, who offered to wash her car for free. She is now known as the “bold one” in her branch on this sunny island in the West Indies.
“I grew up Christian,” she said. “I felt a spiritual pull to accept the missionaries’ offer to attend church.”
Tragedy struck three years after her baptism when her only son was killed. Suddenly, she said, “family history became very important to me.”
Opportunities for family history research and temple work were limited at the time on the island. Computers were scarce, and travel to the nearest temple was expensive and difficult.
Sister Patrick arranged for the proxy baptism of her son but remained patient over the next years. She stayed busy “doing what she was supposed to do” until a series of events came together to provide more help for her family history work.
Wheels were set in motion when Sister Jennilyn Stoffers arrived in 2022 to serve in the Barbados Bridgetown Mission office. Her call to Barbados came as a last-minute surprise. For months, she had made preparations with Church leaders to serve in Ireland, where the wet and cold of northern Europe were more conducive to her health. She had her bags packed for Ireland until she read her mission call, sending her the other direction—to the heat and humidity of Barbados.
Sister Stoffers replaced her warm wools with breezy cottons and soon arrived in Barbados. “There was a lot of adapting,” she said of the weather, the Bajan dialect,2 the culture, the food—just about everything.
“It was easy to fall in love with the members and their pure faith in God,” she said. “Everyone should experience a fast and testimony meeting in Barbados. Members know the scriptures. They are strong in their faith. They face persecution from family and society. Many are the only members of the Church in their families.”
Before long, the branch president asked Sister Stoffers to teach a class on temple preparation and family history work, a subject that fires her imagination and devotion.
A spark was struck among several members. They lingered after meetings, huddling around the branch computer, where Sister Stoffers helped them discover the richness of family history work.
Margaret Haynes was among the first to taste the spirit of the work.
“Imagine how my ancestors are reacting,” she said in reflection. “One day I will meet them. I have always felt a special feeling of being watched over by them. It brings me joy to unite my family. I feel their yearning to make covenants.”
Enthusiasm spread, and more members joined in the weekly gatherings.
“They get after it,” Sister Stoffers said. “If they need permission to perform an ordinance or need data like a birth date, they call a relative right then. There’s no waiting for a more convenient time.”
The laws and culture in the Caribbean make researching family records a challenge. “Yet,” said Sister Stoffers, “members of the branch deal with the frustrations and have now submitted more than 500 ordinances to the temple.” And more are coming.
As Church members unearthed their ancestral past, Sister Stoffers began wondering how they might experience the joy of serving in the temple on their ancestors’ behalf, given the expense of traveling to the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple.
Considering her resources, she remembered the youth and adults in her home ward near Ogden, Utah, USA. With their enthusiasm to serve, could they fill the gap and help their brothers and sisters in Barbados?
Photograph of Ogden Utah Temple by David Bowen Newton
Sister Stoffers’s home-ward bishop liked the plan and rallied the support of youth and adults. Soon, names from Barbados were being shared instantly on FamilySearch.
Now, as often as their schedule permits, a battalion of youth converge on the Ogden Utah Temple, where Bishop Rob Smout pulls from a stack of ordinance-ready printouts to divvy among the youth. The talkative youth grow whisper quiet as they contemplate the unusually spelled names of people with whom they have no connection but feel a spiritual kinship.
Participation has been widespread across the ward. On certain Saturdays, a family of five boys arrives early at the temple to enjoy the sunrise over the Wasatch mountains before performing baptisms.
“It’s become a ward quest,” said Bishop Smout. “It has united the ward. Many have become involved and take names routinely, including those who haven’t attended the temple in years. Others have come back into activity to participate.”
Many members in Barbados, meanwhile, have had unique experiences that motivate them to gather their families.
“As we work together, we feel a family connection,” Sister Stoffers said. “We feel a saintly joy. It is hard to describe, except that it seems to resonate in others beyond.”
“As we work together, we feel a family connection. We feel a saintly joy.”
This enthusiasm to discover ancestors has now spread beyond the branch and across the Caribbean to members on neighboring islands. Proselyting missionaries assist by meeting with members in their homes. To guide those in the far reaches of the mission, Sister Stoffers conducts virtual training sessions.
This effort on a small island in the Caribbean began with love and a desire to bless ancestors. Then came the means to learn how. The branch discovered that the work is spiritual, requiring what Elder Scott called “a monumental effort of cooperation on both sides of the veil, where help is given in both directions.”3 They proved that even in remote Barbados, a small number of devoted members can make a great contribution.
A Work Made Possible through Jesus Christ
“Many of your ancestors did not receive [saving] ordinances. But in the providence of God, you did. And God knew that you would feel drawn to your ancestors in love and that you would have the technology necessary to identify them. He also knew that you would live in a time when access to holy temples … would be greater than ever in history. And He knew that He could trust you to accomplish this work in behalf of your ancestors.”
President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “Gathering the Family of God,” Liahona, May 2017, 21.

Kiva: A Pueblo Indian ceremonial structure that is usually round and partly underground.
“When is your uncle Tanolo going to take you into the kiva?” Little Brown Bear asked. “I am four moons younger than you, yet I was taken into our kiva this day.”
Acuma pulled his rabbit robe closer around his shoulders and sat huddled by the fire, watching the smoke curl upward to add more blackness to the sooty ceiling of the big cave.
“I don’t know,” he said sadly. “I have done everything I am supposed to do.”
“A boy must prove he is now a man before he can enter a kiva,” Little Brown Bear continued. “Have you gone on a hunt?”
“Oh, yes. We stalked the deer through snow and drove him to the edge of our flat mountain. It was my arrow that brought meat to our fire.”
Little Brown Bear shook his head. “I cannot understand. Surely Tanolo is not so cruel that he would tease you.”
Acuma shrugged but did not answer. He had done everything that was required. He knew the legends, his arrow points were well made, he could make fiber from the yucca plant and weave it into heavy sandals, and he could shoot a straight arrow. All these things his cousin from the big cave village had done too, and this day he had been taken into the kiva.
This was an honor for which every Indian boy lived. Yet Acuma could not go. His father said he was well prepared, but Tanolo would not take him. An Indian boy could not be taken to the kiva by his father. At birth an uncle is chosen to be his teacher, and it is this uncle who must take him to the kiva, where he will go through the rituals to become a man.
Acuma glanced at his cousin, wishing Little Brown Bear could tell him what had happened down in the kiva in his own village. But, of course, it was a secret.
When Little Brown Bear left for his own cave village, Acuma jumped up and called his brown dog. He threw off the rabbit blanket. He would be running and his body would warm on this winter day.
“I will not shed tears like that foolish Popeta,” he exclaimed, and he dashed off to chase rabbits. Maybe he would kill one with his throwing stick and show his uncle how skilled he was. Acuma’s dog romped along beside him as they scrambled down the side of the canyon to the creek below.
Then he stopped in surprise. Popeta was filling a water jug to carry back up the steep canyon wall to the cave. She seemed small although she was his own age. Her father could not till his cornfield properly because of a lame leg, so the family did not have enough to eat. And because the father could not run fast, he could not kill enough rabbits to make new blankets. The one over Popeta’s shivering shoulders was badly worn.
“You wear no blanket,” Popeta said in surprise, her teeth chattering. “It is cold.”
Acuma squared his brown shoulders. “I am a man, and I do not feel the cold,” he boasted. “I shall run and catch a rabbit for our dinner.” He started off.
Popeta lifted the heavy water jug. As she did so, the blanket fell from her shoulders. Immediately the brown dog grabbed it in his teeth and raced off, dragging it through the thorny bushes.
“Come back, come back!” Popeta cried out. “It is my only blanket.” She spun angrily on Acuma. “Your horrible dog has stolen my blanket. Go get it.”
Then her shivering grew worse and she began to cry as she climbed the canyon wall with the water jug on her head.
Acuma tried to find the dog, but it had raced down the canyon, dragging the blanket. He could see torn scraps hanging on bushes.
“It is no good now anyhow,” he said as he raced along, feeling warm. Soon he threw his curved stick at a rabbit and proudly carried the dead animal home.
“We already have meat for stew, my son,” his mother said while she stirred something in a clay pot over the fire. “You are a great hunter, and my heart is proud. But why not give it to one who has none?”
Acuma strolled over to Popeta’s fire. “Here, you will have meat.”
She thanked him, then asked, “Did you find my blanket? Without it I will have nothing to warm me tonight.”
Acuma shrugged. “No, I could not find it.”
He forgot about Popeta as he ate his hearty stew that night and sat huddled by the fire, his own warm blanket over his shoulders.
During the night he awoke feeling cold and pulled the rabbit fur blanket up closer. Somewhere he could hear crying.
It is probably that foolish Popeta, he thought. She always cries.
The next day he could not see her by her fire. “She is not well,” his mother said. “She needs food and warm blankets. But I have none to spare.”
Too bad, Acuma thought carelessly and ran off. But every now and then he remembered her crying.
“It is the fault of my dog,” he grumbled to himself. And the more he thought about it, the less he enjoyed the games he played with his friends.
That night he could not sleep. Finally he got up and went to the small dark room behind the cave where Popeta slept.
“Here is my blanket,” he said. “Use it.”
“But it is not yours to give,” she said in surprise.
“I will lend it,” Acuma said, and he hurried back to his room. He was shivering. How cold it was! He found an old feather blanket that was so worn it could not cover him well. But if he curled up in a tight ball in the very corner of his room, the blanket kept out a little of the cold. Popeta had been right—he could not give away his blanket, since all things in the family belonged to the mother. Though he used it, the blanket was his mother’s property.
Then I must make Popeta one, he decided.
For many days his friends called him to play games, but he could not because he was hunting rabbits. He had no idea it took so many to make a blanket. He gave the meat either to his mother or to Popeta, and he sat late into the night cleaning and tanning the skins. He sighed wearily. There was so much work and no fun. At times he was tempted to quit, but remembering Popeta’s tears during that cold night kept him going.
And the few hours he slept, he was always cold. He longed for his own rabbit fur blanket again.
After he had collected enough skins, he had to make many, many arrow points—the very best he could. Then he hurried to his cousin’s village, to the Blanket Maker.
“I will give you these fine arrow points if you will make me a blanket,” he said. “But I must have it quickly. The nights get colder and snow is now on the ground.”
Soon the blanket was finished and Acuma took it to Popeta. “This is yours. It should keep you warm.”
Popeta handed him back his own. “You are kind and it is a beautiful blanket. You have brought us so much meat that I am well. My mother and father do not feel hunger either.”
“I shall see that you have meat in your pot,” Acuma said in embarrassment, then hurried to his own campfire.
That night his uncle came to him.
“When the morning sun rises, you will come with me. It is time for you to enter the kiva to learn the things that will make you a man.”
Acuma’s heart leaped With joy. “I am pleased, my uncle. But tell me, why have you chosen the time as now? For these many moons I have been ready—knowing the making of arrow points, yucca fiber, and the hunt.”
“But the one thing you did not know, my son, you have learned,” Tanolo replied. “A boy plays and gives no thought to others. A man gives up his playing when there is work to be done. Because your dog caused misery to another, you did what was your duty to do, and you did it without complaint. I have watched you and my heart is proud. You shall be known as Acuma, the one who has the heart of a man, though his body is still that of a boy.”

The T’ang dynasty lasted from A.D. 618 to 907. And during this important period in Chinese history, block printing was invented, Buddhism became very strong, and certain areas of the surrounding territory were conquered. The rulers were very rich, especially during the early years of the dynasty, when the T’ang emperor, T’ai-tsung, sat on the throne.
The time came when the emperor wished to find a worthy husband for his daughter, Wen-ch’en, who was a very beautiful, intelligent, and elegant young woman. When the emperor’s wishes became known to the ruler of a kingdom adjoining the T’ang empire, he sent his most trusted official, Prime Minister Lu, to ask on his behalf for Wen-ch’en’s hand in marriage. When the prime minister arrived, he found the representatives of four other rulers there ahead of him.
After some thought, the emperor decided to pose five puzzles for the visiting emissaries to solve. “The ruler whose official shows the greatest wisdom will marry my daughter,” he declared. “After all, he must be very wise if he has chosen such a clever official to serve him. Therefore, he should make a suitable husband for Wen-ch’en.”
The emperor assembled the five emissaries, and ordered one of his courtiers to bring in a length of thread and a large ivory bead, with a hole on either side of it. “Here is the first of five puzzles I shall ask you to solve,” Emperor T’ai-tsung explained. “These holes are connected by a zigzag path. Whoever can thread the bead will solve the first puzzle.”
Each emissary took a turn twisting the thread and trying to string the bead. The first four coaxed it gently, then they tried to force it, and at last they gave up. When Prime Minister Lu’s turn came, he lifted up a tiny ant, looped the thread around its body and placed it at one of the openings in the bead. He blew as hard as he could on the ant and it sped swiftly through the zigzag passageway to the other end.
Emperor T’ai-tsung was impressed. “You are a very clever man. Now, if all of you will follow me, we shall see who can find the answer to the second puzzle.”
Out in the courtyard they found a large pile of cut logs. The emperor said, “There are about a hundred logs here. Can one of you tell me which end of each grew closest to the tree’s roots?”
Four of the emissaries frowned and thought hard, but they could not guess the answer.
Prime Minister Lu asked respectfully, “Your Imperial Highness, am I permitted to have these logs placed in the pond of your courtyard?”
“I have no objection,” the emperor graciously replied.
When the logs had been put into the water, one end of each log sank slightly below the surface while the other bobbed on top of the water.
Prime Minister Lu declared, “The ends beneath the surface are heavier and denser because they are nearer the tree roots and the lighter ends are closer to the tops of the trees.”
“You have solved the first two puzzles very cleverly indeed,” the emperor complimented, “but I wonder whether you will figure out the third.” He smiled and led the five men out to the stables. There he pointed out one hundred mares and one hundred foals. “Your next puzzle requires you to pair each young horse with its mother.”
The five officials walked around looking perplexed at the mares and foals.
It cannot be the size or color, thought Prime Minister Lu. The next day when the emperor asked the officials to match the mares and foals, each of the first four replied that the task was impossible.
Prime Minister Lu confidently said, “Let all the mares be taken from the stables and the foals kept inside. The foals may eat as much hay as they like all day long but they may not be given a single drop of water to drink.”
The next day Prime Minster Lu asked that the foals be let out of the stables. Each foal ran to its mother to drink.
T’ai-tsung was delighted at Prime Minister Lu’s ingenuity. He praised him highly and then told the five that there would be no more puzzles to solve that day. Four of the officials spent the day resting, but Prime Minister Lu wandered in the courtyard, speaking kindly to the courtiers and servants he met and inquiring about the life of the court.
That night as all the officials lay sleeping in the guesthouse, they were suddenly awakened by a tremendous noise of gongs and drums. A courtier suddenly appeared and bowed low. “You are summoned to the presence of his Imperial Highness,” he told them. Then he vanished.
Prime Minister Lu was thoughtful, It is strange indeed that we must find our way to the emperor ourselves. I wonder if this is another puzzle. It will be quite easy to reach the imperial quarters by following the noise of the gongs and drums, but it will be quite difficult to return here in the darkness. Trailing behind the other four officials, he carefully made a small mark at every corner so that he could find his way back.
As soon as the emperor had greeted the five emissaries, he dismissed them with instructions to return at once to their guest quarters.
“The first one to find his way back to the guesthouse will have solved the fourth puzzle,” he announced.
The first four officials stumbled and fumbled in the dark and soon were hopelessly lost in the confusion of the many passages. Treading softly, Prime Minister Lu felt for the marks he had notched at each turn and returned quickly to the guesthouse.
“Prime Minister Lu has won again!” the emperor declared. “But there is one final puzzle to solve tomorrow. It is the most important of all.”
When the five officials gathered the next day, they were faced with a long line of beautiful young girls in silken robes. T’ai-tsung announced, “My daughter, Wen-ch’en, is one of these girls. Which one is she?”
The first four emissaries, eager to make up for failing to solve the other puzzles, quickly chose one of the girls and said, “Your Imperial Highness, this is your daughter.”
But Prime Minister Lu had listened to the talk of the courtiers and the servants while the other officials had spent their time resting. He remembered that one courtier had spoken of Wen-ch’en’s long, glossy black hair while another talked of her pearl white skin. Yet someone else admired her graceful figure and the proud way she held her head high. But of most importance, Wen-ch’en’s little maid servant had told the prime minister that her mistress had a tiny mole on her left wrist so he looked for that.
Prime Minister Lu selected one of the girls and said, “Your Imperial Highness, this girl, most beautiful of all, is your daughter.”
“You have performed the task given you by your ruler perfectly,” the emperor said. “This is indeed my daughter, Wen-ch’en. I give her in marriage to your ruler. He is an extremely wise man to have placed you in his service.”

The importance of this step is illustrated by a family of five who became converts to the Church. They had lived in a neighborhood where there were many Latter-day Saints, and they had learned much about the gospel. Then they had moved to a mission area, and a Mormon missionary invited them to church. In a short time they were baptized. Someone asked, “Why didn’t you join sooner?” The father answered, “No one ever before invited us to join or even to go to church.”

Recently, I went on a famous hike to Roy’s Peak in the beautiful mountains of New Zealand’s South Island. Because the hike lasted several hours, I took only what I needed: some snacks and a lot of water.
When I started, my backpack already felt heavy. Half an hour into my hike, I felt the weight of my pack even more on my shoulders and back. For a moment, I thought about throwing out some of my water. But immediately, I knew I would need it.
An hour and a half before I reached the mountaintop, the path became steeper and covered with snow. I began to think I couldn’t reach the top, but my goal motivated me to continue.
When I finally reached the top, my backpack felt much lighter. By then I had eaten my snacks and drunk most of my water. Resting and appreciating the beautiful view from above, I reflected on my journey—to the mountaintop and in life.
For hours, I walked uphill, nourishing and hydrating my body so that I had strength to keep going. What seemed like a burden in the beginning—lifesaving water—blessed me to reach my goal.
We all experience ups and downs, but the Holy Ghost helps us make good decisions. I almost left more than half a liter of water on the trail, but I felt impressed to keep it.
With moist eyes, I thanked my Heavenly Father for these reflections. Being in the snow-covered mountains that day inspired me to analyze my life, my decisions, my goals, and my personal backpack.
Before my hike, I was full of uncertainty regarding my life and my work in a foreign country. But now I feel that everything will be fine. I know that the Lord will take care of me.
In company with the Spirit, I know I can make correct decisions that will lift me mentally, physically, and spiritually. And when I feel weighed down, I can turn to our Savior, the source of “living water” (John 4:10). I know He will nourish me and lighten my load (see Matthew 11:28–30).

It’s opening night.
Makeup has been applied, costumes put on, and props laid out. The final shout of “break a leg” has finished echoing through the hallway. After hours of utter chaos, it’s peaceful. Actors who moments ago joked and talked with one another now sit side-by-side in silence. Slowly they are making the transition from the everyday lives of modern-day teens to the daily struggles of adults who lived more than 100 years ago.
They are getting into character.
“When you’re in character, you’re acting just like that person, feeling the way they feel, and you have to let that show,” says deacon Jeff Timmons.
Building a character for a play means training yourself to think, feel, and behave the way your character would. In real life, building a character is not that much different. It requires the same hard work, discipline, and dedication as acting. But it also requires making decisions about the attributes that should be included in the part you wish to play—things like willingness to work, to share, and to love others.
In Los Lunas, New Mexico, Jeff and his fellow cast members are participants in a ward play that spreads the gospel message. While they are learning how to act on stage they are also helping each other learn the best ways to act in life.
Part of creating a strong character includes an appreciation of those who have gone before. As part of their stake’s Pioneer Day celebration, the youth in Los Lunas re-created the lives of 19th-century Armenian converts to the Church in their production of “And They Shall Be Gathered.”
“The early converts to the Church faced challenges, just like we do now. They were just different kinds of challenges,” says Geoff Pankretz, a priest who plays the male lead, Sarkis.
The Los Lunas First Ward put the production together with the help of director Norlan Jacobs, who was in the original production of the play at BYU more than 20 years ago. Brother Jacobs, cast members say, taught them many things about acting—concepts like blocking (learning where to stand and how to move on stage), characterization, and motivation. But more important than that, he stressed the significance of the story the play tells: a story of love, sacrifice, and of the great strength early converts to the Church were required to have.
“Brother Jacobs told us about the actual people the play was based on. They left their family behind in Armenia because they knew the Church was true. They decided to come to Utah. After they left, their family was killed. It makes you realize how important this play is. It gives you an appreciation for what people went through,” says 16-year-old Shae Dunkley.
Sometimes building character means knowing when to be a leader and when to be a follower. Putting together a play is no exception.
“This play has taught me a lot about working as a team,” says 17-year-old Libby Farnsworth. “I’m used to getting on the stage and being the center of attention, but this play is not a one-person show. You have to really allow the limelight to be on the person it’s supposed to be on.”
On stage, teamwork means remembering your own lines and helping others out when they forget theirs.
“Libby’s really great at feeding me lines. When I forget what to say next, she repeats the line before, to jog my memory. She’s saved me more than once,” says Geoff.

Once while riding in a plane, I engaged in conversation with a young man who was seated beside me. We moved from one subject to another and then came to the matter of religion. He said that he had read considerably about the Latter-day Saints, that he had found much to admire in their practices, but that he had a definite prejudice concerning the story of the origin of the Church and particularly Joseph Smith. He was an active member of another organization, and when I asked where he had acquired his information, he indicated that it had come from publications of his church. I asked what company he worked for. He proudly replied that he was a sales representative for an international computer company. I then asked whether he would think it fair for his customers to learn of the qualities of its products from a representative of its leading competitor. He replied with a smile, “I think I get the point of what you’re trying to say.”
I took from my case a copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and read to him the words of the Lord expressed through Joseph Smith, words which are the source of those practices my friend had come to admire in us while disdaining the man through whom they had come. Before we parted, he agreed to read the literature I would send to him. I promised him that if he would do so prayerfully he would know the truth not only of these doctrines and practices which had interested him, but also of the man through whom they were introduced. I then gave him my testimony of my conviction concerning the prophetic calling of Joseph Smith. That baby boy born 200 years ago this month in humble circumstances in rural Vermont was foreordained to become a great leader in the fulfilling of our Father’s plan for His children on earth.

On my knees, I recalled that I had felt that same terror a few months previously. I was studying the Bible on location in Israel for five months as part of the Brigham Young University’s study abroad program. As part of our program, we were expected to climb Mount Sinai. Being from the flat metropolis of Toronto, Canada, I hadn’t had much association with the wilderness, much less mountain climbing. I feared failure, and became more morose as the date of the climb approached.

All too soon the dreaded day descended upon me. Numbed by trepidation and a night of sleepless worry, I arose to meet the challenge.

We started our ascent at 2:00 A.M. so we could reach the summit by sunrise. It was a rugged two-and-a-half hour climb. I don’t think I could have made it without Tenney Sipherd.

“Follow me, Betty,” Tenney said as we departed the youth hostel at the foot of the mountain. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

How she helped! Tenney had a small flashlight, so we could find the trail in the dark. And every time the path got rocky, she would take my hand and lead me through. If I stumbled, she would pull me up. I grew to trust Tenney as we climbed the majestic peak in the dark.

Elated, we reached the top of Mount Sinai a few minutes before sunrise, and I blushed as my fellow students and friends applauded my victory over the rugged mountain. Taking a seat beside them, I watched in awe as the first rays of sunlight flashed over the horizon of the barren Sinai wilderness. Tears filled my eyes as the symbolism of the climb occurred to me.

All of us have mountains in our lives: mountains of trials, mountains of discouragement, mountains of temptations. And sometimes we cannot see where we are going, and sometimes the path is rough, and sometimes we stumble. But we must always remember that there is one who will take us by the hand and keep us on the right path and pick us up when we fall. We just have to follow his light. And that’s the Savior. As we rely on him, we learn to trust him. And trust leads to obedience.

Corrie ten Boom, a devout Dutch Christian woman, found such healing despite having been interned in concentration camps during World War II. She suffered greatly, but unlike her beloved sister Betsie, who perished in one of the camps, Corrie survived.
After the war she often spoke publicly of her experiences and of healing and forgiveness. On one occasion a former Nazi guard who had been part of Corrie’s own grievous confinement in Ravensbrück, Germany, approached her, rejoicing at her message of Christ’s forgiveness and love.
“‘How grateful I am for your message, Fraulein,’ he said. ‘To think that, as you say, He has washed my sins away!’
“His hand was thrust out to shake mine,” Corrie recalled. “And I, who had preached so often … the need to forgive, kept my hand at my side.
“Even as the angry, vengeful thoughts boiled through me, I saw the sin of them. … Lord Jesus, I prayed, forgive me and help me to forgive him.
“I tried to smile, [and] I struggled to raise my hand. I could not. I felt nothing, not the slightest spark of warmth or charity. And so again I breathed a silent prayer. Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give me Your forgiveness.
“As I took his hand the most incredible thing happened. From my shoulder along my arm and through my hand a current seemed to pass from me to him, while into my heart sprang a love for this stranger that almost overwhelmed me.
“And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world’s healing hinges, but on His. When He tells us to love our enemies, He gives, along with the command, the love itself.”
Corrie ten Boom was made whole.

I can talk to Grandpa. He always listens to me, and he seems to know how I really feel. Like the time I got picked from my Little League farm team to play in the majors! Now, tennis shoes are OK for a farm team, but for the majors—that’s different! For those teams, you should have real cleats and a glove that isn’t a hand-me-down from three older cousins. I tried to explain all this to Mom, and she just sighed and looked up at the ceiling. But Grandpa put his thumbs in his braces and did some tall thinking. A while later, when I was trying on my uniform—not just a T-shirt with the team name on it, but a real uniform with striped pants and socks and everything—Grandpa came in and gave me two boxes tied with string. In one was a set of real cleats, and in the other was my very own new glove! Now that’s what I call a buddy! Grandpa grinned at me, and I grinned right back.

These words represent Elder Pratt’s declaration of the miraculous coming forth of a remarkable book. How he came in contact with the book is an interesting story.
In August 1830, as a lay preacher, Parley Parker Pratt was traveling from Ohio to eastern New York. At Newark, he met a Baptist deacon by the name of Hamlin, who told him “of a book, a strange book, a VERY STRANGE BOOK! … This book, he said, was supposed to have been originally written on plates either of gold or brass, by a branch of the tribes of Israel; and to have been discovered and translated by a young man near Palmyra, in the State of New York, by the aid of visions, or the ministry of angels. I asked him how or where the book was to be obtained. He promised to let me see it, at his house the next day. … Next morning I called at his house, where, for the first time, I saw the ‘BOOK OF MORMON’—that book of books … which was the principal means, in the hands of God, of directing the entire course of my future life.
“I opened it with eagerness, and read its title page. I then read the testimony of several witnesses in relation to the manner of its being found and translated. … I read all day; eating was a burden, I had no desire for food; sleep was a burden when the night came, for I preferred reading to sleep.
“As I read, the spirit of the Lord was upon me, and I knew and comprehended that the book was true, as plainly and manifestly as a man comprehends and knows that he exists.” (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, third edition, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1938, pages 36–37.)
Parley Pratt was then twenty-three years old. Reading the Book of Mormon affected him so profoundly that he was soon baptized into the Church and became one of its most effective and powerful advocates. In the course of his ministry he traveled from coast to coast across what is now the United States, into Canada, and to England; he opened the work in the isles of the Pacific and was the first Mormon elder to set foot on the soil of South America. In 1857, while serving a mission in Arkansas, he was killed by an assailant. He was buried in a rural area near the community of Alma, and today in that quiet place a large block of polished granite marks the site of his grave. Engraved in its surface are the words of another of his great and prophetic hymns, setting forth his vision of the work in which he was engaged:
The morning breaks; the shadows flee;
Lo, Zion’s standard is unfurled! …
The dawning of a brighter day
Majestic rises on the world.
The clouds of error disappear
Before the rays of truth divine; …
The glory bursting from afar
Wide o’er the nations soon will shine.
(Hymns, 269.)

I looked at the clock and shut my scriptures, relieved that my 30-minute study had finally ended. I knelt and offered a mostly passive prayer. The one thing I was sincere about was this: “Heavenly Father, please please please help me know if I’m worthy to go to the temple today.”
I repeated that phrase over and over as tears began to stream uncontrollably down my cheeks and the pit in my stomach grew.
It was the eighth week in a row I had gone through this before my weekly temple appointment. Each week my prayer seemed to grow longer and the pleading more fervent.
I knew I had sinned. I knew I had done something that made me unworthy to attend the temple.
I just couldn’t figure out what that thing was.
I had a habit of repeatedly confessing sins to my bishop. I confessed things that I had done as a child, things I had already repented for, and worst of all—things I wasn’t even sure I had done.
Although each confession provided temporary relief, the next day I would be overwhelmed with guilt again. I began obsessively reviewing my life to find the sin I was sure I had willfully committed.
Each Sunday I would take the sacrament and be filled with the purest peace imaginable. That moment was the highlight of every week. Five minutes later, however, I would be back to painstakingly reviewing my sins and shortcomings, convincing myself that each infraction was far more severe than I’d originally thought.
This constant pattern of constantly repenting and feeling guilty continued until I sought help. Three years later, through the divine guidance of a newly called bishop and small, miraculous circumstances, I found myself sitting in a therapist’s office. I was formally diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD).
Through professional help and acts of faith on my part, I have learned more about myself and how OCD affects my relationship with Heavenly Father.
Although scrupulosity, otherwise known as “religious OCD,” is just one aspect of how OCD affects me, it has been debilitating.
In my battle with OCD, I felt like if I didn’t read my scriptures, pray, or attend the temple, God would be angry with me. With that perspective, worship became dutiful, dull, and repetitive. Like the Zoramites worshiping upon the Rameumptom, I began to “pervert the ways of the Lord in very many instances” (Alma 31:11).
Because of my disorder, scripture study became a time of mindless reading and relentlessly avoiding any passages that had anything to do with repentance. Praying became an apathetic effort. Temple attendance made me feel guilt-ridden and fearful rather than uplifted and fulfilled.
Gratefully, my feelings and perspective gradually changed. As I worked with my therapist, my anxiety became manageable. I began intentionally exercising faith and believing that I could always be forgiven and that God knew my circumstances. I began giving myself more compassion, and for the first time in a while, I felt that God was pleased with me and loved me. My relationship with Him began to be more fulfilling and more empowering. As I prayed for help and healing, I began to understand the gift of repentance and to worship God because I loved Him—not out of fear.
I started understanding what Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles meant when he recently remarked, “Our Heavenly Father’s goal in parenting is not to have His children do what is right; it is to have His children choose to do what is right and ultimately become like Him.”1
Although scripture study caused (and sometimes still causes) me anxiety, seeking the healing power of Jesus Christ and gaining helpful tools in therapy have helped me connect with Him and Heavenly Father again.
Perhaps the hardest lesson I have had to learn is trusting Heavenly Father’s timing more than mine.
One day as I was reading the blessings He promised to me in my patriarchal blessing, I was overwhelmed with the idea that because of my OCD, the blessings described would be impossible for me. I was promised that I would feel peace, but how could I with so much anxiety?
How would I ever learn to love the temple when I always felt unworthy to attend?
I pled for God to remove my OCD from me. But as I did, a single thought came to my mind: “Would I continue to follow the Savior if He didn’t take my OCD away?”
The thought that Heavenly Father wouldn’t take my mental disorder away was devastating. In the days since, I’ve pondered that question a lot: “Will you follow me if not?”
I’ve learned that although OCD might always be present in my life, God will help me to handle its symptoms and continue to grow. My healing still includes crying, bouts of guilt and anxiety, therapy, and pleading on my knees.
But more and more, my healing involves reclaiming joy in my life, offering myself love and grace, and connecting with the Savior. As I turn to Him, He helps me have the strength to carry on. He is by my side as I weep. I have felt His presence more than ever as I plead for His help in dealing with OCD. I now understand how “he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people” (Alma 7:11). I am learning that He truly does know how I feel and will provide me with what I need as I keep moving forward.
Although the extent of the healing I desire may not come now, I hold on knowing that, as Elder Renlund taught, “‘All that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ’ [Preach My Gospel: A Guide to Missionary Service (2018), 52].”2 I have faith and hope that promised blessings and healing will come—even if that means in the eternities.

While editing the text, Jacinta learned of the heartbreak the prophet had experienced. His wife Julina had been desperately ill and although President Smith wanted to stay at her bedside and attend to her, she insisted he leave and go and do the Lord’s work. A short time after, while delivering a talk in a church meeting, someone came into the room and handed President Smith a note—it informed him that his wife had passed away.

Looking for a cheap project with a big reach, the group harnessed the power of sidewalk chalk. They obtained approval from the city and set out. “We went downtown and wrote kind messages on the sidewalk with chalk,” says Isabelle C., a 15-year-old Lutheran. “When we finished, we left some chalk and wrote a message saying ‘write some more’ so other people could keep writing kind messages. This was my favorite project because I knew the messages we wrote would make someone smile. And they made me smile!”

In 1887 Hungarian Mischa Markow was converted near Constantinople (Istanbul), Turkey. In 1899 he served as a missionary in his native land, but he was arrested and banished from Hungary because of his preaching. He tried to share the gospel in neighboring countries, but after having difficulties there, Elder Markow and his companion preached in Temesvár, Hungary, until the government forced them to leave. The day before they left, they baptized and confirmed 12 people and appointed leaders for a congregation of 31 members.

Dirk crossed the cobblestone street. Only ten more vranken, he thought, and I’ll have enough. He turned the corner at Kerkstraat and looked down the row of houses and the black iron fences enclosing the small front yards. The terrace houses behind them were typical of many other Belgian houses. They were three and four stories high, all joined together to form one long building.
Dirk opened the gate of house number 27 and rang the bell. Last year when he was here he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach it. But now that he had grown some, he could ring it easily.
The bell tinkled softly inside. A window opened overhead and an old woman called down. “Oh, good afternoon, Dirk. Kom binnen (come in).”
“Good afternoon, Mevrouw Peeters,” he greeted her when he had climbed to the third floor. She handed him a shopping list and some money.
Dirk ran many errands for Mevrouw Peeters to the groentemarkt (vegetable market), to the bakkerij (bakery) and to many other shops. Each week she gave him five vranken. On his errands Dirk usually passed his favorite store, a sports shop, where he stopped to gaze intently in the window.
The shiny, white soccer ball was still there—the one he’d been saving for all year. Winter would soon come to the northern Belgian town where he lived, but that would not stop him from playing his favorite sport. Each time he passed the store he was a little afraid to look for fear the ball might have been sold.
After my errand today I’ll only need five more vranken, he thought.
Dirk delivered the aardappelen (potatoes) and bloemkool (cauliflower), to Mevrouw Peeters. Looking at the coin in his hand, he imagined himself kicking his soccer ball high in the air for a goal.
He rushed home to count his money. Sure enough, two hundred vranken. “Surely waiting until next week to pay tithing won’t make that much difference,” Dirk told himself. He ran down the stairs and out the front door. The soccer ball would soon be his!
But as Dirk skipped along, he remembered how careful Mama and Papa were to pay their tithing the first thing whenever they received any money. “We always manage,” Mama often said. And Papa truly meant it when he said, “We have been blessed in many ways, and we have a good feeling in our hearts when we do as the Lord commands us. We are grateful to be able to contribute our share to help with the Lord’s work.”
Dirk stopped. The sporting goods store was just around the corner. In his imagination he already held the soccer ball. But a feeling even stronger than his longing for the soccer ball made him turn quickly around and run home. He counted out the tithing he owed and put it in an envelope to give to the branch president on Sunday.
Several days later Dirk’s errand for Mevrouw Peeters took him in a different direction from his usual route, so he didn’t pass the sports shop. The following day when he went to Mevrouw Peeters’, she said, “I’ll need some more aardappelen today, Dirk. Will you get them for me?”
Dirk nodded and hurried off to the vegetable market.
Mijnheer Vandecasteele wrapped the two pounds of potatoes in some newspaper. “Do you have enough money saved for your soccer ball yet?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” replied Dirk with a wide grin, “I’ll have the five vranken I need.”
On the way back with the potatoes, he stopped to look in again at the sports shop window.
The soccer ball was gone!
Tears filled his eyes as he turned away from the shop in disappointment.
When Dirk reached Mevrouw Peeters’ house, she said, “Oh, Dirk, I forgot to have you get me three pompelmoezen (grapefruits). Could you go back to the market for me and I’ll pay you now instead of tomorrow?”
Dirk took the five vranken and started down the stairs. What good is the money now? The soccer ball is gone, he thought as he walked slowly back to the market.
As Dirk neared the sports shop his pace quickened. He started to turn his head away but something caught his eye. There was another soccer ball, a better one than he had ever seen before. And the price marked on it was not much more than the ball he’d been saving for. Before long he would have enough money to buy it.
He was glad now that he had paid his tithing instead of buying the other ball. But best of all was the good feeling he had.
Dirk ran up Kerkstraat so fast that he was almost out of breath when he handed the grapefruit to Mevrouw Peeters. “Boy! I’m glad I waited,” he said, half talking to himself.
“What?” asked the old woman, a puzzled look on her face.
“I have a good feeling just like Papa said,” Dirk explained. And he ran happily down the stairs.

By the time my companion and I started teaching Corina Aguilar, she had already expressed a desire to come to church. After learning about the Restoration of the gospel and reading and praying about the Book of Mormon, she felt that the Church was true. There was just one thing holding her back: her husband, Manuel.
Corina would not attend church by herself—she was determined that her entire family learn about the gospel together. However, Manuel was busy working long hours, and when he came home, the last thing he wanted to do was listen to a couple of missionaries.
Corina began praying that Manuel would have a desire to meet with us, but weeks passed with no change in his attitude. Then, one day at the end of a lesson, Corina asked us about fasting. We were late for another appointment, so we briefly explained that when we fast, we go without food or drink for two consecutive meals. During that time we pray to Heavenly Father for help and guidance for ourselves or for others. With a promise that we would teach her more during our next visit, we hurriedly left.
A few days later we visited Corina again. During the lesson she surprised us when she said sadly, “I don’t think I can fast.” She explained that since our last visit, she had been fasting. She would go through the day without breakfast or lunch and would then eat dinner. Following that meal, she would start again, not eating anything until the next day’s dinner. This pattern continued for three days. “I tried really hard,” she told us, “but it was so difficult.”
Amazed at her faith, we quickly explained that normally a person fasts for only one day. Then, curious to know the motive for such sacrifice, we asked, “Corina, can we ask what you were fasting for?”
“For my husband,” she responded.
We were impressed by her desire to follow the commandments of the Lord and seek blessings for her family. Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin (1917–2008) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Often when we fast, our righteous prayers and petitions have greater power.”1 So it was with Corina. The next week Manuel agreed to meet with us. Although skeptical, after learning about the plan of salvation, he too began to pray and even kept a copy of the Book of Mormon in his truck to read during his break at work. Eventually Corina, Manuel, and their three children began attending church together.

I spent a year in Murray, Utah, as an exchange student and was baptized on October 22, 1976. When I received the New Era recently as a Christmas present from Sister Smith, I couldn’t believe it because I didn’t ever think I would read it in Japan. I took seminary at Murray High and enjoyed many articles from the New Era. Thank you, Sister Smith. This will be one of the most wonderful Christmas presents I’ve ever known.
Toy IshikawaFukui, Japan

Composite photo illustration by Mike Boyland/iStock/Thinkstock and Oleksiy Fedorov/Hemera/Thinkstock
At the age of 23, I was called as a Relief Society president in our married student ward. I remember the inadequacies I felt, coupled with the desire to do my best. I was eager and excited to serve but doubted my ability to be a good leader.
After a few months as the Relief Society president, I felt that I wasn’t doing enough. I wanted to be able to connect with the sisters and be in tune with their individual needs, but I felt that I was coming up short.
I talked with my bishop and expressed my concerns. I explained how I just couldn’t reach all of the sisters I wanted to. I described how I wished that I had five of me to get the job done the way I thought it should be. I tried to keep my concerns light and humorous, but my eyes quickly filled with tears of discouragement. He smiled and offered some of the best leadership advice I have ever received.
“Are you familiar with the story of the shepherd who, upon losing one of his flock, left ‘the ninety and nine’ to find it?” he asked (see Luke 15:4–7). I nodded.
“There seems to be so much wisdom in that parable,” he continued. “The shepherd knew that the ninety and nine would be all right if he left them to look for the one lost sheep.”
Then my bishop offered the following advice:
“You see, the ninety and nine have a great way of looking after each other when you’re gone. They will buoy each other up and hold together very well. I suggest that you concentrate on the ones who seem lost. The rest will be OK.”
I felt a strong witness that what he had told me was true and that I didn’t need to worry about the entire flock all at once. My purpose was to find those who were lost and to invite them back into the fold. In that way, Heavenly Father’s purposes could be brought to pass, and I could be a tool in His hands.
As I heeded the bishop’s counsel, I felt a greater measure of understanding of how the Lord would have me serve in His kingdom. I also received spiritual fulfillment that strengthened me in my calling because I was serving as the Savior had instructed. Through the power of the Holy Ghost, my bishop had given me a great gift of understanding and insight.
I testify that as we pray and seek inspiration from our priesthood leaders, they will be inspired to show us how to lead in righteous ways.