Gospel Story Finder

As one example, Sophia remembers a time when she was approaching a jump at high speed. She felt a distinct impression that she needed to get herself into better positioning. “In motocross, we have to be squeezing the bike with our knees. We need to keep the balls of our feet on the pegs and crouch low with our head just above the handlebars.”

Cruising in an upright position, on the other hand, is a recipe for disaster.

After she received the prompting, she didn’t hesitate. She adjusted her body position. Immediately afterward, she had a serious problem with the landing on the jump. It should’ve been a crash for sure. However, because she’d listened to inspiration and improved her positioning, she was able to absorb the shock. “Instead of crashing, I bounced with the bike.”

As I lay in my bed that night, I watched each of my sisters and brothers in turn be taken down the stairs. I was the oldest child at home that year since my older sister had left on her mission. Below me in the living room, I heard the song over and over as each child was sung to. Then it was my turn. I followed Papa down the stairs into the living room. He sat in the big chair and opened his arms.

“Do you still want me to sit on your lap?” I asked.

“Of course,” he smiled. Gratefully, I climbed onto his lap and pulled my knees up to my chin, snuggling up next to him.

“This is my last night to be rocked,” I said.

“I know,” came his quiet reply.

As the first few strains of the familiar tune began in the tape recorder next to us, I thought back to all the years I had heard this song on Christmas Eve. Suddenly something in me wanted to stay. I was so warm and comfortable, and I had no idea what the future months and years would hold. I started to cry.

Don’t let this song end, I thought.

Papa began to sing.

Heaven bless you little one while you’re fast asleep.
You’ll awake to dancing toys,
Candy canes, Christmas joys.
And I pray your whole life through,
Angels will watch over you,
Loving you the way I do,
My little one, sleep well.

Each year before this night, the song had reminded me of Christmas and what the next morning would bring. But on this last time, I knew Papa was singing about life and the years ahead—not toys that would break or wear out, but eternal joys I would find on my journey through life, joys I was not even aware of now. On this night I heard the emotion of his voice as he sang for angels to watch over me, not just for tonight but for tomorrow night and all the nights that would follow when he wouldn’t be there.

I let my tears flow, as the last strains of music faded away. Papa and I watched the lights of the tree in the darkness, and we rocked and rocked, long after the song had ended.

As we rocked, I thought what our last night in heaven must have been like, the night before each of us came to earth to be born. Did Heavenly Father hold us close and tell us of the joys and dancing toys which we would find on the morrow? Did we cry and wish we could stay with him forever, even though we knew earth life would bring us more joys than we could imagine? He must have held us long after his song to us had ended, asking that angels would watch over us in our earthly journey, that our years away from him would be filled with happiness and would eventually lead us back to his presence.

I found comfort as I thought of my Heavenly Father that night, while my earthly father rocked me. Even though Papa couldn’t be there every day in the future to help me with each struggle I would face, my Father in Heaven would be there. No matter what the years ahead would bring, I would not only have the support of an earthly father but of my Heavenly Father. And he would guide my paths and bring me home for good. That night I felt he too was singing, “Loving you the way I do, my little one, sleep well.”

This was not the only time Emma protected priceless scripture. On the couple’s journey to Pennsylvania, she helped hide the plates in a barrel of beans. During the translation process, Emma gave Joseph a linen cloth to cover the plates as they sat on a kitchen table during the day and bought a red leather box for the written paper manuscripts. She also asked her brother-in-law for a box, which she and Joseph kept under their bed and where the plates were locked each night.

Some years later I was called to serve in another bishopric. Again this love developed as we had opportunity to meet so often to direct the affairs of the ward. A little over a year later, a change was to be made in our stake presidency. The bishop and I were called in to be interviewed by the General Authority who was making the change. The first question the General Authority asked was, “How do you get along with your bishop? Is he a good leader?” Then I started to express in glowing terms my love and appreciation for this man and all he had done for the ward. Suddenly I realized the purpose of the interview. They could call him into the stake presidency, and we would lose our association. I immediately stopped my compliments on his great service, and after a pause, I said with a little smile on my face, “The only difficulty he has is that when he is under pressure, he goes home and beats his wife.” The General Authority leaned back in his chair and said, “Isn’t that peculiar? He was in here just a minute ago and said you have leadership capabilities but you too have a fault. You like to go out behind the barn on occasion and smoke a cigar.” The strategy failed: I was called into the new stake presidency.

Paul and his parents were walking to church. Paul felt excited. Today was the Primary program! All the children were going to sing songs and share scriptures during church. It was Paul’s first time being in the program.
When they got to the church, Paul saw the missionaries. They had been teaching Paul’s family about the gospel.
“Ready?” Sister Walker said.
Paul nodded. He had learned a scripture. It was about how Jesus asked us to love everyone. Paul was ready to share it!
They all went inside and sat down. Soon the bishop asked the children to come to the front of the chapel. Paul stood with his new friends. He smiled a big smile. He could see his mom and dad smiling too. Then the music began.
“If the Savior stood beside me, would I do the things I do?” Paul tried to sing every word clearly. He imagined Jesus was listening.
In the middle of the song, Paul saw someone open the door at the back of the chapel. A boy named Mark walked in. He was with his family. Mark looked at the other kids singing. He seemed sad.
Maybe he’s sad he got here late, Paul thought. Mark started walking slowly up to the stand.
Paul remembered when he came to Primary for the first time. He was glad that other people sat next to him and were nice.
Paul wanted to help Mark. He waved for Mark to come to him. “Come up here!” Paul mouthed the words.
Mark walked quickly up to the stand. Paul made room for Mark.
He gave Mark a hug. “Thanks for coming,” Paul whispered.
Mark gave Paul a big smile.
Soon the song ended. Paul and Mark sat down together. Paul was glad he could help a friend feel loved and welcome.
You can find “If the Savior Stood Beside Me” in the March 2013 Friend.

Years ago I was a supervising physician in a Lumbumbashi hospital. One day during consultation, I met a young couple. The husband escorted his pregnant wife in to see me. After consulting with her and reviewing laboratory tests, I diagnosed her with severe anemia. The normal course of treatment would be to perform a blood transfusion, but she refused as her faith—Jehovah’s Witness—forbade such a procedure. Instead, I recommended a treatment with medicine. They confessed that they had no money to pay for the consultation or treatment.

Knowing their financial situation, I went to the pharmacy and purchased all the needed medications. Then, I went to the cashier and paid for the laboratory tests and other related costs. When I came back to the office and told her what I had done, there were tears in her eyes. I told her I knew intimately that our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ would sustain her and give her this child—and that I would pray that it be so. One year later, in downtown Lubumbashi, I saw a couple carrying a child coming toward me. They stopped, and the woman said, “Doctor, here is the child you helped us have, and we will never forget what you did. Thank you so much”. With tears in my eyes, I took the child into my arms and silently thanked the Lord.

I recently attended the funeral for one of my boyhood friends. This brother was genetically challenged from birth. He could understand concepts quite well but could not read or write. His speech was limited to a very few identifiable words, along with a jargon all of his own. Some in our group could recognize a few words he spoke. However, we could usually tell from the tone of his words whether he was expressing his concerns or his great capacity to love. Much of Lynn’s early life was spent in a special school away from home. He spent his summers and many holidays at home with his family. For the past 17 years, Lynn, who outlived all of his family, lived in a care center where his many needs could best be met.

Upon Lynn’s death, one of his special friends arranged a funeral to be held in the meetinghouse we attended as boys. Present at the funeral were his dear friends, the staff from the care center, a few ward members who remembered him from many years ago, and about a dozen boyhood friends and their families. Several brethren who had stayed close to Lynn during his long, often lonesome stay at the care center offered tender remarks.

All of our memories were refreshed during the course of the service. One friend recalled that on one occasion our Sunday School teacher invited us to bear our testimonies in class. As he sequentially called upon us, he passed over Lynn, perhaps feeling he could not respond with understanding. With all the righteous indignation Lynn could muster, he let the teacher know he expected his opportunity to express himself. Though we didn’t understand much of what he said, we felt his love and the depth of a great spirit tragically locked in a body that could not fully function. The spirit in that class was very strong!

As the staff and the special friends from the care center expressed their unconditional love, it was very evident that Lynn, in his humble way, had reached out and touched their lives. During the course of the funeral, it was apparent that at least three of our boyhood friends and their families had reached out to minister to Lynn in ways that included regular visits, long automobile rides, invitations to dinners on special occasions, and birthday parties.

When the stories and recollections were complete, we all realized that our physically challenged, loving angel of a friend had given us and the wonderful compassionate families who reached out so often in love, far more of real value than he had ever received.

When I was a stake president, there was a women’s conference by satellite broadcast. As it started, we had the video, but all we could hear was Korean.

And so, as a stake president, I pondered what we should do. As I thought about it, I noticed that under the Korean voice, there was a quiet English voice in the background. So I went to the pulpit and said, “Until we solve the problem, if you will listen carefully for the quiet English voice, you will be able to understand the conference talks. If you get distracted even for a minute, you will lose the message.” For 10 or 15 minutes, until we solved the technical problem, we were able to enjoy that message by listening to the quiet voice.

Many people have helped me arrive at the place where I am today, serving as a missionary in the India New Delhi Mission. I was not born a member of the Church or even a Christian. It was a childhood friend who introduced me to the gospel.
After I was baptized, I had an institute teacher who nourished me with the word of God every week and he helped me to always have a desire to go on a mission. Whenever I didn’t attend institute class, he came to my home to find out why and to be sure I was at the next class. I also had a bishop who always kept me busy with a calling and with Church activities. Back then, I felt they were little pushy, but because of them, today I am happy, gaining a lot of experience helping many people to come unto Christ as a missionary!
This was true in my life. I had all three of those things. It was very easy to stay active even though I was the only member in my family. I never felt alone. My ward members took care of me. It’s been six years since I started following Jesus Christ. He has always helped me very much through my ward members.

A true story from Ghana.
Anane grinned as he walked through the street. The smell of frying fish and the busy chatter of people filled the market. He was on his way to Uncle’s house. Mum had given Anane some money to give to Uncle.
He looked around at all the stands selling produce, foods, and other items. Then something caught his eye.
There was a food stand that had two of his very favorite treats, toffee and biscuits. He looked at the money Mum gave him. One hundred cedis is a lot, he thought. His favorite treats were only 10 cedis. Uncle probably wouldn’t even notice if some was missing.
Anane bought the treats. He popped a toffee into his mouth and kept walking to Uncle’s house.
Uncle was standing outside his house as Anane walked up.
“If it isn’t little Anane! Come on over,” said Uncle. “What can I do for you?”
“I brought you some money from Mum.” Anane handed him the money, then put his hands back in his pockets. Would Uncle notice that some of the money was missing? He watched as Uncle counted it.
“Thank you for bringing this over,” Uncle said.
Anane was glad Uncle didn’t notice the missing money. He said goodbye and started the long walk home. On the way, he finished eating his toffee and biscuits.
“How was the walk to Uncle’s?” Mum asked when Anane got home.
He shrugged. “It was good.”
“Thank you for taking that money to him for me,” said Mum.
Anane looked down at the floor. He started to feel guilty. What if his parents found out he had spent some of the money? He didn’t want to lose their trust.
The next morning, Mum asked Anane to buy some things at a nearby shop. “Come straight home after you are done at the shop, OK?”
“OK.” Anane walked through the market, but he didn’t stop to buy anything. He scrunched his eyebrows and thought, This time I’m going to do exactly what Mum asked.
As soon as he was done, he went right home. He gave Mum all the leftover money.
That Sunday, Anane went to his Primary class. “Good morning!” his teacher said. “Today we are talking about obedience. It is important for us to listen to our parents and make good choices.”
Anane thought about the money he spent on the toffee and biscuits. He felt his stomach drop. He knew he had made a wrong choice.
After church, Anane wanted to talk to his parents. His heart was racing.
“Mum, Dad? You know the money you gave me to take to Uncle?” Anane asked. “Well, I bought some treats with some of it.” He looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for being honest,” Dad said. “I’m proud of you.”
Anane smiled. He was so happy that he told the truth. And he felt good inside after telling his parents. He was already making a better choice.

Let me recall for you the story of Mary Ann Baker. Her beloved and only brother suffered from the same respiratory disease that had taken their parents’ lives, and he left their home in Chicago to find a warmer climate in the southern part of the United States.
For a time he seemed to be improving, but then a sudden turn in his health came and he died almost immediately. Mary Ann and her sister were heartbroken. It only added to their deep grief that neither their own health nor their personal finances allowed them to claim their brother’s body or to finance its return to Chicago for burial.
The Baker family had been raised as faithful Christians, but Mary’s trust in a loving God broke under the strain of her brother’s death and her own diminished circumstances. “God does not care for me or mine,” said Mary Ann. “This particular manifestation of what they call ‘divine providence’ is unworthy of a God of love.” Does that sound at all familiar?
“I have always tried to believe on Christ and give the Master a consecrated life,” she said, “but this is more than I can bear. What have I done to deserve this? What have I left undone that God should wreak His vengeance upon me in this way?” (Ernest K. Emurian, Living Stories of Famous Hymns, Boston: W. A Widdle Co., 1955, pp. 83–85.)
I suppose we have all had occasion, individually or collectively, to cry out on some stormy sea, “Master, carest thou not that we perish?” And so cried Mary Ann Baker.
But as the days and the weeks went by, the God of life and love began to calm the winds and the waves of what this sweet young woman called “her unsanctified heart.” Her faith not only returned but it flourished, and like Job of old, she learned new things, things “too wonderful” to have known before her despair. On the Sea of Galilee, the stirring of the disciples’ faith was ultimately more important than the stilling of the sea, and so it was with her.
Later, as something of a personal testimonial and caring very much for the faith of others who would be tried by personal despair, she wrote the words of the hymn we have all sung, “Master, the Tempest Is Raging.” May I share it with you?
Master, the tempest is raging!
The billows are tossing high!
The sky is o’ershadowed with blackness.
No shelter or help is nigh.
Carest thou not that we perish?
How canst thou lie asleep
When each moment so madly is threatening
A grave in the angry deep?
Master, with anguish of spirit
I bow in my grief today.
The depths of my sad heart are troubled.
Oh, waken and save, I pray!
Torrents of sin and of anguish
Sweep o’er my sinking soul,
And I perish! I perish! dear Master.
Oh, hasten and take control!
Then this beautiful, moving refrain:
The winds and the waves shall obey my will;
Peace, be still! Peace, be still!
Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea
Or demons or men or whatever it be,
No waters can swallow the ship where lies
The Master of ocean and earth and skies.
They all shall sweetly obey my will.
Peace, be still! Peace, be still!
They all shall sweetly obey my will.
Peace, peace, be still!
Too often, I fear, both in the living of life and in the singing of this hymn, we fail to emphasize the sweet peace of this concluding verse:
Master, the terror is over.
The elements sweetly rest.
Earth’s sun in the calm lake is mirrored,
And heaven’s within my breast.
Linger, Oh, blessed Redeemer!
Leave me alone no more,
And with joy I shall make the blest harbor
And rest on the blissful shore.
(Hymns, no. 106.)

Missionaries, who were confined to their homes like everyone else, soon received smartphones and access to social media platforms that allowed them to connect with people responding to a Facebook ad published on the Africa South Area Facebook pages titled “Where Can I Turn for Peace?”
Very soon after the ad ran, Elder Gava and his companion were given a stack of names and phone numbers from people who had responded to the advert, indicating that they were interested in meeting with the missionaries and finding out more about the Church. They were asked to contact each person. As they looked through the names and numbers, both missionaries were impressed to call a particular woman. She answered in a very low voice, but after they had introduced themselves, she almost screamed with happiness. “Thank you so much for reaching out to me!” she said. “Thank you for calling at the right time.”
As the conversation progressed, the elders learned that this woman was then lying in a hospital bed having just suffered a stillbirth. “She was saying she was so hurt . . . like there was a deep hole in her heart,” he said. “At the time we called her, she needed someone to be there with her, but, unfortunately, she was alone. That sister became one of our good friends and we started teaching her online.”
Elder Gava says this experience taught him how the Spirit works in our lives and how it can move us to talk to people who need us, at the time they need us. He also learnt another lesson: the importance of the proper use of technology in missionary work. He realised that technology can be used to reach out to our Heavenly Father’s children.
On Elder Gava’s mission he saw these two channels working together: the Holy Ghost was the heavenly channel, bringing a message from heaven to the missionaries; and technology was the earthly channel, bringing that message from the missionaries to their brothers and sisters.

As a Kenyan teenager, Jastus Suchi Obadiah once vowed to his friends that he would physically harm any white South African he happened to meet. “My friends and I often read in the newspapers about the injustices of apartheid, and we hated white South Africans,” he explains. Fortunately, Jastus forgot his hateful vow before he ever met a South African.
As a young man, Jastus was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by his cousin, a Church member. “I’ll never forget the first missionaries who taught me; one was a black African, and one was a white elder from the United States,” says Jastus. As Jastus observed these two young men working together in harmony, “I learned there were many good people no matter what their color.
“As they taught me, the principle of love came into my heart. I realized that to be like God, you really must be loving. My sense of love grew—even for my enemies.” Two years after his baptism, Jastus was himself a missionary, serving in the Kenya Nairobi Mission.
Jastus and his senior companion seemed to work particularly well together; they shared a strong mutual respect and quickly became the best of friends. One day, as Jastus was looking into the white face of his South African companion, the long-forgotten vow made in his teens came rushing back to him. “It really affected my heart when I remembered what I had said. Then I realized how wonderful the gospel is, because it brings people together, no matter who we are or where we come from.
“And I felt how wonderful it is to teach this gospel together with my white companion,” he says. “The gospel changed the course of my life.”

One son bought a small home in a distant state. He showed me bricks on a corner of the foundation that were eroding away. He asked what he should do.
I did not know, but I asked, “Is there an older couple that lives close to you?”
“Yes,” he said, “across the street and down a few houses is a retired couple.”
“Why don’t you ask him to come over and look at that. He knows your climate.”
That was done, and he got the advice of an older man who had seen problems like that and many others. That is what adopted grandpas can do.

The miracle began when, with my husband and son, I moved back into the neighborhood where I had lived as a youth. Jane,* a non-member and a woman who had had trouble with alcohol for years, still lived there—with her husband, small daughter, and mother. For years, the neighbors had avoided dealing with Jane’s problem by deliberately having no contact with her family.
Although I remembered the stories of Jane’s wildness and drinking from my high school days, I also remembered her compassion as a nurse. She had never seemed too busy to come in the night to help someone in pain. She couldn’t be all bad, I decided. After all these years I would accept her good qualities and ignore the rumors.
I soon became aware that not all was rumor. Jane was an alcoholic. During her drinking bouts anything might happen. But the rest of the time she was a fine wife, a model mother, and a great friend. No one, however, seemed able to help her overcome her alcoholism. She was literally drinking herself to death.
Her family despaired. They accepted, they loved, they tried to cope, and their agonized hearts cried out for help. I could only offer Jane my love and friendship.
Since Jane’s daughter, Mary, and my son were almost the same age, I began including her in our family activities. We took her to church with us and on picnics and outings. She also stayed with us when Jane was drunk and out of control. For example, I remember one day I met Jane coming out of the liquor store, carrying a brown paper sack containing bottles of liquor. As soon as she saw me, Jane thrust Mary’s hand into mine and asked me to take Mary home. For several days, Jane’s mother, her husband, and I managed to care for Mary and keep things as normal as possible for her.
Through the years, a strong relationship developed between our families. I was amazed at how fast little Mary absorbed gospel teachings. She took the gospel into her home in bits and pieces, insisting on blessing the food when she was only three, and adding daily by precept and example.
Jane’s love for Mary, her desire to be the right kind of mother, and her frustration about her alcoholism almost overwhelmed her. She became desperate to change her life-style. One day she told me of a place that “cured” alcoholics. It wasn’t an easy process—most gave up under the pressure and sank back into despair. But Jane decided to risk all. She would rather die than continue the way she was.
The cure was expensive, but her family somehow got together the money needed. For months, Jane was gone. Later she compared that time to a literal hell, full of anguish and suffering.
While Jane was away, I wrote her letters of love and encouragement. One stressed the value of prayer and how much it could help. I never knew how much that letter helped her until years later when she took it from her purse, almost shredded from many readings, and read parts of it in a testimony meeting.
Jane made it. She was one of the few who were really cured. Her health had been practically ruined from the drinking, but her spirit was triumphant. She had won her fight. But there was more to come.
One day Jane came to talk to my husband and me. She told us that Mary, nearly ten now, wanted to be baptized. The real surprise came when Jane told us she wanted to be baptized, too. She wanted my husband to perform the ordinance for both of them.
Jane and Mary became faithful members of the Church. A short while later Jane’s husband and mother joined. The years passed. Then one day Mary brought a young man to see me. They spoke of plans to wed. Six months later Mary and her young man were married, and Jane’s family was sealed in the temple. The miracle was complete.

Once again the girl with the short curly hair tried to stand up on the snow-covered slope and regain control of her skis—but more slowly this time. Every muscle seemed to rebel and force her to admit defeat. Her mind had not counted the many times she had fallen down, but her body knew and it reminded her.
The people in the town called her Heidi, even though that was not her name. And she did not really belong to that part of the world either. The Swiss Red Cross had placed her for a few months in the home of a Swiss family. Thousands of undernourished children from war-torn countries of Europe found a similar haven in Switzerland where they could regain their physical, emotional, and mental health.
Later in life Heidi would try to find out who had put this worthy program into effect. But at the moment her overriding concern was her frustration.
Through tearfilled eyes she could dimly see the outline of the house she called home. Home—that was what it had become to her. At first she had tried very hard to resist its beauty, but the urge lasted only a short time. The scent of wood paneling, the aroma of freshly baked bread and homemade soup, the crackling of logs in the fireplace enveloped her like a warm blanket every time she stepped into the foyer. She felt secure there.
Slowly, like a flower unfolding to the sun, she had opened her heart and soul to her surroundings. Heidi knew there would be pain in leaving at the end of her stay, yet she was willing to take the risk. Whatever heartache lay ahead would have to be met when it came. These glorious memories might have to carry her for a long time.
Heidi’s own country was in ruins. Food was scarce, and her father was a prisoner of war. Her mother was so blind with grief at the death of her only son that she was unaware of the needs and emotions of those around her.
For the first few nights after her arrival in Switzerland, Heidi lay awake trying to become accustomed to the sounds of the house. It was hard for her to believe that she could really go to sleep and that there would be no siren to make her heart race with the fear of yet another air raid.
Heidi had looked around the room. There was so much to see and explore. There was a soft white sheepskin rug on the floor by her bed and a huge, billowy feather tick that almost seemed to drown her. She often found a piece of chocolate on her pillow. Even the light bulbs were white, not blue like the ones she had been used to.
More than anything she loved the mountains. They seemed to her like people—some very gentle, others a little less smooth and polished. She remembered a man high on the Alps who spent his summers taking care of the cows and making cheese. He was not really anybody to be afraid of, but Heidi had never seen him smile. Once, without saying a word, he had given her a small handcarved goat.
Heidi had found a lot to be happy about in her new world, yet some things still grieved her. If only the other children wouldaccept me, she pined. Sometimes she felt trapped behind a wall of indifference. None of the children had ever invited her to join their games. At first she had not minded too much, because the games were not familiar to her anyway. Her childhood had been spent just trying to stay alive. However, standing at the window watching, Heidi learned fast. Now she longed to be included, but it seemed that that would never happen.
With the sensitivity and cruelty that only children are capable of at the same time, she was not left to guess at their feelings. Because Germany, her homeland, had started the war, she knew there was no way these children would make it easy for her.
All these pent-up feelings made Heidi determined to excel. She decided she had to win the ski race and made her plans in secret. The boots, skis, and poles she borrowed were much too big for her, but they’d have to do. Early every morning she would leave her warm bed to practice on the slopes. And long after the other children had gone home, Heidi still practiced in the early dusk.
Each waking minute was filled with the vision of winning the race. Heidi could picture herself flashing through the gate as the loudspeaker announced the fastest run of the day. It will be mine! It has to be mine! Heidi daydreamed. She was determined to be the one who would be given the cup filled with delicious chocolates. She was the one who would walk past the line of competitors as the winner. I’ll show them, she dreamed. They’ll be sorry then for all their insults. In Heidi’s mind much more than a place in the winner’s circle was at stake—she would have her revenge.
The day of the race came. There was no time for nervousness now, just a steely determination that had honed her ability to near perfection. Heidi skied as though she had nothing to lose and everything to gain, and it happened exactly as she had envisioned it so many times. Slowly her steps led her to the winners’ stand. She accepted the cup and turned to make the traditional walk past the other participants.
Eyes seemed to look through her, and nobody smiled or applauded. If this is victory, she thought, why am I so unhappy? Yet, could I really expect the others to understand and rejoice with me? It would be asking too much.
Heidi straightened her shoulders and took a few returning steps to the beginning of the line. What she was doing required courage. If she were not able to make amends today, she was afraid her resolve would falter.
Arm extended with the visible sign of her victory, Heidi invited her longed-for-friends to share in her triumph and her prize. For a small moment in time it was as though the very air around her held its breath. Nobody spoke or moved. Finally one of the girls took a chocolate and smiled her thanks. And then almost at once it seemed to Heidi that everybody was laughing and crying at the same time.
Acceptance had come at last.

For many years, Faustina Antwi was living with the effects of a stroke, for which there was no cure. Her husband had taken her to many hospitals, but nothing was done to get her back on her feet. Many friends and acquaintances would often prescribe or suggest medicine to help her. Her husband and family felt as if they should buy everything that was suggested, whether they had the money for it or not. If they didn’t have the money, they would work to get it.
One day, she realized there is a peaceful and healing place called the temple. She wanted to go there. She discussed it with her husband, and even though her husband doesn’t go to Church, he believes in God. He told her to give it a try if that is where her faith was. She prepared herself and left for the temple.
It takes three and half to five and a half hours to travel from Twifo Praso to Accra. She arrived at the temple too late to go inside that day, so she slept nearby. Early the next morning, she entered the temple. She put her faith to work and prayed to her Heavenly Father to heal her from her stroke. She spent three days at the temple and on the last day of her visit, she could feel there was a change in her body.
She is now able to move the arm that had been affected by the stroke. Her mouth has improved, and she is able to speak to her friends at the temple and at home.
She knows Heavenly Father has healed her. She wishes the temple were closer so that she could go there every week. She wants to share her testimony of the temple so that it can strengthen others. She loves the Church and the Book of Mormon and knows they are true. She is thankful for a living prophet.
This testimony was shared by Faustina Antwi of the Twifo Praso District in the Cape Coast Coordinating Council during fast and testimony meeting and later told to Prince Baah for the Liahona Local Pages.

Years passed. Brother Andelin passed away. Then on a cold December morning, our priests quorum arrived at a little house on the edge of the ward boundaries. The name on the mailbox read Andelin. At the door, leaning against a cane, was a small woman with thinning white hair and a warm smile.
Our adviser introduced us to Sister Andelin as we brought in the small Christmas tree we were giving her. She made sure to learn our names as she talked to us. Sister Andelin hadn’t been able to come to church for several years. But even though she didn’t recognize most of us, she knew our families.
“How’s your mother?” she asked me.
I gave the usual response. “Fine.”
“My husband used to be your home teacher when you first joined the Church. Do you remember that?”
After telling her I did, I reminded her about the board and the seesaw. She held her hands together and smiled at me as if picturing the entire thing in her mind. “You know, he was always doing good things like that for people. And now look at you,” she said, taking hold of my hand. “Passing on the good that you were taught. That’s how I get along now; all the love my husband spread around this ward just keeps flowing back to me.”
I realized that Brother Andelin took care of the widows and the fatherless as the Lord directed. But more than that, Brother Andelin passed on a spirit of giving that outlasted both him and that old teeter-totter.
Since Brother Andelin’s first visit, I’ve learned a lot about the Church, while gaining a testimony of the gospel. That testimony began when a white-haired man took an old board and made a seesaw.

“How many more boards do you think we need?” Jordan* asked as he and Derek huffed and puffed up the driveway to Ben’s backyard.
“Oh, maybe one more load,” Derek said. “My dad says we can use all the scrap wood we need from the pile in our backyard.”
The boys were hauling wood in Derek’s wagon for the treehouse they were building in Ben’s oak tree. When it was finished, it would be their clubhouse.
During the summer, the boys had formed a club. The treehouse would make their club extra special.
Jordan and Derek dumped their load on the pile of boards. Jordan called up to the tree, “How’s it coming?”
“Pretty good,” Brandon answered. “The floor is a little crooked, but we’ve nailed it in tight. We’ll start on the walls next. Send up a couple of really straight boards.”
All week long they worked on the treehouse, and even when it got really hot outside, they didn’t mind. Ben’s mom sent out frozen treats, and the four boys sat in the tree, eating the treats and talking about how fun their treehouse would be when it was finished.
Finally the treehouse was ready. It was getting close to dinnertime, so they all climbed on their bikes to go home. Derek yelled over his shoulder, “Remember, Jordan, ten o’clock tomorrow—our first meeting in the treehouse!”
“I’ll be there!” Jordan hollered back.
The next morning, Jordan wolfed down his scrambled eggs and toast, then hurried through his chores. “May I go now, Mom? We’re having our first club meeting in the treehouse.”
“Sure, Jordan. Just be back at noon.”
Jordan hopped on his bike and headed to Ben’s house. He could tell by the bikes in the driveway that his friends were already there. As Jordan climbed the wooden planks nailed to the tree trunk, Derek popped his head out of the treehouse door.
“Stop right there, Jordan,” he said. “You have to give the password first.”
“Huh? We’ve never had a password.”
“Well, we do now. It’s—”
As Derek said the password, Jordan got a sick feeling in his stomach. “But that’s a bad word,” he thought. Aloud, he said, “Derek, what are you talking about? I’m not going to say that.”
“Then you can’t be in our club!”
“Come on, Derek, I don’t feel good about saying that, and I really want to try out the treehouse today.”
Jordan heard laughs and snickers coming from inside. It was Brandon and Ben.
“Jordan’s chicken!”
“Come on, Jordan—we all said it.”
Jordan was quiet for a minute. Then he squared his shoulders and said, “I guess I can’t be in the club, then. I won’t say that.” He climbed down the steps, got on his bike, and slowly rode home.
When he came in the back door, Mom said, “Hi, buddy. You’re home early.”
“I guess I didn’t feel much like playing today.” His lip quivered just a bit.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
Jordan hesitated, then blurted out, “The treehouse is finished, but the others say unless I say the password, I can’t be in the club.”
“Well, what’s the password?” Mom asked.
“I can’t tell you. It’s not a nice word.”
“I see.”
Mom walked over to the refrigerator, poured him a glass of chocolate milk, and sat down at the table. She was quiet for a minute, and then said, “Jordan, do you know the story of Abinadi and King Noah?”
“Yes, Sister Nielsen told us that one in Primary.”
“Well, when Abinadi was brought before King Noah and tried to teach the king and his priests about Jesus Christ, Abinadi told them to repent. Do you remember what King Noah thought about that?”
“Didn’t he tell Abinadi that if he didn’t take it all back and deny Jesus Christ, they would kill him?”
“That’s right. And what did Abinadi do?”
“He wouldn’t say it, because he knew it was wrong.”
“Well, isn’t that like what you did today?”
Jordan was puzzled. “I don’t get it, Mom. What does that have to do with my club?”
“Well, Abinadi wouldn’t say something he knew was wrong. He stood up for what was right, and so did you.”
“I guess you’re right, Mom.” He took another gulp of chocolate milk. “But even though being kicked out of the club isn’t anywhere near as bad as getting burned to death, choosing the right can be hard sometimes.”
Mom smiled. “That’s true. But don’t you feel better for making the right choice?”
“Yes, I do. You’re right, Mom. Thanks.”
Just then the doorbell rang. It was Brandon. “Jordan,” he said, his head down a little, “I’m sorry. We never should have had that crummy password. I wish I could have been brave like you. Can we still be friends?”
“Sure, Brandon! What do you say we go over to the park and shoot some baskets?”
“OK! I’ll go home and grab my ball!”
Jordan smiled as they rode their bikes to the park. “Mom was right,” he thought. “It feels lots better to choose the right!”

Laysa belongs to a group of astronomy lovers in Brazil. One day a group member shared a link to an opportunity to analyze telescope images to look for asteroids for NASA. Laysa signed up.

“They send images from the Pan-STARRS telescope at the University of Hawaii,” she explains. “I used the astrometric software to analyze these images, and I was looking for some point movement with the characteristics of an asteroid.”

After scouring images and sending reports for analysis, one day she got a confirmation. She had found an asteroid. For now, it’s called LPS0003. But eventually she’ll have a chance to choose a permanent name for it.