Gospel Story Finder

Just the other day, we met a girl about your age who had never heard of God. It was very hot and sticky, so my companion and I were glad to go inside an apartment building when we knocked on doors to try to tell people about the Church.
We met Ina’s mother first, but as we talked outside the door with her in Russian, Ina poked her head out and stared at us with big blue eyes. She was amazed that we spoke her native language. When her mother explained how busy they were and said that she just didn’t have time to hear about Bog (God), we were disappointed. We really want to tell people about Heavenly Father, and no one had wanted to listen that day.
Then Ina gave us hope. As we left, she asked, “Did Bog send you here?”
I told her, “Yes,” and we smiled at each other.
Later, as my companion and I left another apartment down the block, discouraged because we had just finished a discussion with people who wouldn’t believe God existed, Ina came roller-skating by. “What are you still doing here?” she asked.
“We’re telling people about Bog.”
“Who’s Bog?”
I’d forgotten that she’d grown up in Russia and didn’t know anything about Him. “Bog is the Father of your spirit, and you are His daughter,” I told her.
“His daughter?”
“Yes.” My companion and I explained. “Tyee deetya Boga (You are a child of God). In fact, we all are children of Bog—everyone on earth is brothers and sisters.”
Ina giggled. “Then that means that my mom is my sister. That’s funny!”
“You’re right—she is your sister.” We continued, “And Bog loves all of us, just as your parents love you.”
“Where is Bog? How come I don’t see Him?”
“Bog is in nyeba (heaven), and you might not see Him, but He’s there, and you can talk to Him.”
“I can talk to Him?”
We explained to Ina about moleetva (prayer). We told her that she could really talk to Heavenly Father just like she talks to her mom and dad and that when she did, she would feel good inside.
“But how will I know that Bog listens to me?”
“How do you feel when you help your mom?” we asked.
“Well, … good. … Sort of warm.”
“That is how Bog tells you that what you are doing is good and that He is happy with you. You’ll have that same feeling when you pray.”
Ina wanted to know how we knew about Bog. We told her that we had prayed to know if He really existed and was our Father and that He had answered our prayers. We added that He spoke to men called prorokee (prophets) and that when they told us about Bog, we felt warm and good inside then, too.
“Someone has seen Bog?” Ina was excited.
“Yes, Ina, prorokee have seen Bog. They talk to Him and tell us what He says.”
“Why can’t I see Bog?”
“Do you know what?” we said. “You did see Him. You lived with Him before you came to earth, and you will see Him again when you die.”
Ina was really thinking hard. “I want to see Bog again!”
“Do you know how you can do that, Ina—how you can live with Him again? You can start now by being nice to everyone and doing kind things for them. You can also pray to Him and help your mom and dad pray to Him.”
“I’m going to!” she exclaimed. With determination in her stride, she skated down the street toward her home. Suddenly she stopped and called back, “Can I pray by the window?”
“Yes, you can pray anywhere, anytime,” we assured her.
“I’m going home to pray right now!”
We didn’t get in any more doors that day, but three days later, we ran into Ina again. When she saw us, she grabbed our hands and exclaimed, “It’s my seostra (sisters)!”
We asked if she had prayed, and she nodded. “How did you feel?” we asked.
“Warm!” she said. “Good!”
Sara, sometimes missionary work gets frustrating, and I begin to be discouraged. Then I think about Ina and about what the Savior said to the Nephites: “Ye must … become as a little child.”* Heavenly Father is real. He loves us, and He answers our prayers. I want you to know that I love Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I know that They love me and that They love you, too. Thank you for praying for the missionaries. We need your prayers.
Please pray for Ina, too.

One day, 15-year-old Lucy Morley was helping her neighbor, Abigail Daniels, weave cloth. As they worked, three missionaries knocked at the door. They said that Jesus Christ had sent them to share a message.
The men told Abigail and Lucy that Jesus had called Joseph Smith to be a prophet. They also told them about the Book of Mormon.
To Lucy’s surprise, Abigail became angry. She made the missionaries leave.
Lucy knew the missionaries were servants of God. She told them to visit her family down the road.
The missionaries went to the Morley home. Lucy’s parents invited the missionaries to teach them and their friends.
That night, 17 people were baptized. In the next few days, 50 more people heard the missionaries and were baptized. Even Lucy’s neighbor Abigail changed her mind. She and her husband, along with Lucy and members of her family, chose to follow Jesus Christ by being baptized.

A note from a sister in her ward comforted Raihau Gariki of Tahiti, who was called as a Relief Society teacher just one month after turning 18. She was nervous to teach “mothers and grandmothers, women who already knew so much, had faced many trials, and experienced a lot of things.” After her first lesson, she received “a note full of love” from a woman in the class. This note bolstered her confidence—she pasted it in her journal to help her through hard times.

Of course, our arms are full, although for the time being the birth mothers’ arms are empty. How shall they embrace—and be embraced—in safety? The answer to that question requires more time than I have available. A partial response comes in the pleas of a three-year-old whom we have taught to pray for her and her sister’s birth mothers. A few months ago she told us: “Mommy loves me. Daddy loves me. Lizzy loves me. Everyone loves me.” Pressing her cheek next to her mother’s, she promised, “I will not break your heart.” Then, with an eye to eternity that sobered us, speaking of her birth mother, she said, “I will not break her heart either.”

I believe in the power of a child’s prayer. I believe in a loving Father’s equity that promises that all arms will be full, if we will wait patiently on the Lord. I know that sometime in eternity our daughters will finish the process of their birth mothers’ healing. These finishings will be intimate restorations.

Shortly after Ka Po was baptized, the sister missionaries encouraged her to take an institute class. It was held early Saturday mornings, and Ka Po remembers how hard it was to wake up and get to class on time.

A classmate called Ka Po every Saturday morning to wake her up and encourage her to attend class. One day the classmate gave the responsibility of calling to King. That was the beginning of their friendship.

Ka Po says, “Church activities helped us know more about each other.” Their first date was a dance practice for young single adults.

Ka Po and King dated for four years. King helped Ka Po share the gospel with her grandmother and brother. Then on the night he proposed, he met Ka Po in the playground of the school where she was attending night school. She had just finished a big exam and was exhausted, but she felt wonderful when he asked her to marry him and gave her an engagement ring.

They were married in the Hong Kong China Temple. Ka Po says, “I will never forget the day we were sealed in the temple. It was so beautiful and amazing that we could be together for eternity. I could not stop crying, and my heart was so full I couldn’t speak. I love the temple and the great blessing that we can go to the temple in our own country.

“Our temple marriage will influence not only us, but it can influence our children and their children. It is so important that we have the same purpose and goals on earth. I love the gospel, and I love my eternal spouse.”

Everyone knows that computers are useful tools. You can play games, send E-mail to friends, even type up term papers for your European history class. But Laurels in the Aliso Creek Ward, Santa Margarita California Stake, know an even better way to use a computer.
“I looked up my parents in the Ancestral File™ [at her local family history center] on the computer and found the names of thousands of my ancestors. It was really neat!” says 18-year-old Rebecca Hope.
Liz Chocco, another Laurel, prepared the names of two deceased family members and was then baptized for them in the San Diego Temple.
“The Spirit was so strong,” says Liz. “I felt that these two relatives were actually there. I felt an eternal bond with them. The phrase ‘families are forever’ became real to me in the temple.”

Steve Crandall sat bolt upright in bed.
“Your mother’s pains have started.” His father’s face was lined with worried creases. “Can you come help me clear the road to the highway?”
Steve was already struggling to pull on long underwear, sweaters, socks, pants, parka, boots, muffler, gloves. His heart was racing.
Shoveling snow, opening the garage door, starting the jeep, hitching the drag, swinging open the jeep door for his father—Steve fumbled with numb fingers while his heart beat with the fury of the wind swirling up the snow drifts.
Through the roar and clanking of the old jeep, his father shouted, “Take it easy, Steve. We’ll make it. Your mother has had nine kids before this, including you.”
Steve was glad to be able to hide his face in the parka hood. He was quiet for a moment. Then he let his memory wander and thought back to the time when Mom had Julie. There had been no special precautions that time; Dad had just helped Mom to the car, and they drove off to the hospital.
That seemed a long time ago and many miles away in a place where everything was so much different. This was Alaska. It was 50° F. below zero. The hospital was 51 miles away, and there was no telephone in their house. This time Dad paused to give Mom a priesthood blessing before helping her to the car. This time, Dad, Steve, and his two sisters prayed together in the car that they would make it down the road before the baby came. But this time, too, when it was all over and little Rachael took her place in the Crandall clan, 16-year-old Steve felt older somehow. It was as if he had been a part of something that was much more real than he had ever experienced before.

During the Great Depression, the homeless, the downtrodden, the unemployed “rode the rails” that passed not far from our home. On numerous occasions, there would be a soft knock on the back door. When I opened the door, there I would see a man, sometimes two, ill-clothed, ill-fed, ill-schooled. Generally, such a visitor held in his hand the familiar cap. His hair would be tousled, his face unshaven. The question was always the same: “Could you spare some food?” My dear mother invariably responded with a pleasant, “Come in and sit down at the table.” She would then prepare a ham sandwich, cut a piece of cake, and pour a glass of milk. Mother would ask the visitor about his home, his family, his life. She provided hope and words of encouragement. Before leaving, the visitor would pause to express a gracious thank-you. I would note that a smile of content had replaced a look of despair. Eyes that were dull now shone with new purpose. Love, that noblest attribute of the human soul, can work wonders.

It was 11 p.m. when I heard my father’s car door close outside. He was home a little early tonight. Dad was a college professor with a full load of night classes to teach, so his normal arrival time wavered somewhere between 11:30 p.m. and midnight. And since I left for my early-morning seminary class before sunup, I usually only saw him for a few flurried minutes each night. That is, if I saw him at all.
Tonight I was brushing my teeth when he popped his head through the bathroom doorway. “How are you?” he asked. Through a mouthful of toothpaste I mumbled a response, then asked how his day had been.
“Great,” he said boisterously. “The plane got in a few hours ago, and the bus dropped us off at the school. After that I came right home.”
Plane? Bus? Was I missing something? He must have noticed my vacant stare, because he quickly added, “I was at a conference in Indianapolis all week.”
He was? Why didn’t I know about this? I realized with a pang of shame that my father had just spent five days on the other side of the country, and I hadn’t even noticed he was gone.
As my sister and I got older, it seemed like the whole family got busier until we were, as Mom liked to say, “like ships passing in the night.” We barely had time to blurt out “good morning” before we rushed in separate directions. But even with our classes and after-school activities, my sister and I couldn’t compete with Dad at being busy. His workday was longer than anyone else’s. Even when he was home, he spent hours at the computer, writing textbooks and revising lecture outlines.
Because Dad wasn’t a member of the Church, we only saw him on Sunday mornings over our bowls of breakfast cereal. By the time the rest of the family came home after our Church meetings, he had usually disappeared to his office at the college to get more work done.
I had always thought my family was a regular busy family, and I figured that feeling out of touch with my dad was just a part of such a high-speed life. Until that night over the bathroom sink, I never really considered the idea that we might be too busy.
A few weeks later, the missionaries from our ward came to my house for dinner. Dad, of course, was missing in action, but after we had eaten, the missionaries began to ask us some questions about Dad’s feelings toward the Church. Had he ever taken the discussions? Had he read the Book of Mormon? Did he ever come to Church with us? My mother and I answered the questions as best we could. Then the elders said that they’d really like the chance to teach my father the gospel, and they wanted to enlist our help.
Although I was usually enthusiastic about thinking up ways to help share the gospel with my father, I leaned back into my chair and frowned. “What can we do?” I asked skeptically. “We hardly ever see him.” I explained to the missionaries about Dad’s overly hectic schedule, and they nodded understandingly.
Finally one of the missionaries, who also had a nonmember father, said, “My dad was the same way when I was in high school. He was such a workaholic that I felt like I never saw him, and we just drifted farther and farther apart. I got even busier after I joined the Church.
“I just decided,” he went on, “that it was important for my dad to know that I loved him, that my joining the Church didn’t make me love him less. Since I didn’t see him very often, I started leaving him notes. Nothing special. I just wrote a quick note telling him that I loved and appreciated him, and I made sure I put it where he’d find it.”
“Did it work?” I asked skeptically.
He smiled and shrugged. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
It was a challenge I couldn’t refuse. That night, after I was in my pajamas and Dad still hadn’t gotten home from work, I pulled out a pad of sticky notes and wrote a quick message: “Dear Dad: I hope you had a good day. I love you.” I signed my name at the bottom and stuck the note to his computer screen, knowing Dad almost always made a stop at his computer before he finally got to bed.
The next morning when I plodded into the bathroom still half asleep, I noticed a piece of yellow paper clinging to the mirror. “Dear Melody,” it read. “Thanks for the note. I love you too. Love, Dad.”
I smiled, something I rarely did at 5:30 in the morning.
For the rest of that year before I went away to college, I left notes for my father a few times a week. Nothing elaborate, just a few lines to tell him what was going on in my life, to wish him a good day, to tell him I loved him. He almost always responded with another note attached to my bathroom mirror or my bedroom door.
As the weeks went on and our note exchange became a regular thing, it became easier to put into words how I really felt about my dad. I realized that even though I didn’t spend as much time with him as I wanted to, I really did love him. And I realized that even though he worked a lot, he really loved me too. Having a true friendship made us more eager to do things with each other, too, like trips to museums or into the city on Saturday afternoons.
Over the years I kept a few of the sticky notes from Dad. I even taped one to the mirror in my dorm room at college just to make it feel like home. When I finally went back home for Christmas, I noticed that Dad had done the same. A piece of yellow paper with the words “Dad, I love you. Melody” was firmly attached to the top of his computer desk.
My father never joined the Church. But when he died suddenly several years ago, the yellow sticky note was still on his computer desk, right where it had been for five years. In the weeks after his death, I felt grateful that I had found a way to communicate with Dad even when we were both at our busiest. I didn’t have to wonder whether he knew that I loved him. I knew that he looked at my words every day.

Lily was also able to serve when she completed her Divine Nature value project. For this project, she decided to babysit for free so that a couple could attend the temple the day before their child with Down syndrome underwent a major medical procedure.
Lily’s mom took Lily to the family’s house and stayed with Lily while the parents were gone. “I was a little scared at first,” says Lily, “but then I started playing with the kids, and they were really nice.”
After Lily spent the evening playing with the children, she got them in their pajamas, helped them brush their teeth and hair, and read them a bedtime story. Lily’s mom sat back and read a book, letting Lily do her job. Through this experience, Lily learned about service and about caring for and interacting with others. “I felt happy after I babysat. I learned I could do something I hadn’t tried before.”

I remember the first meeting I attended after I had been asked to serve on the Board of Trustees for Church Education System. I was instructed very politely on two occasions that the meeting always started on time and that I might like to come a little bit early. I am usually fairly prompt, but I didn't want to appear eager, so I timed myself carefully to walk into the board room about five minutes to ten. As I walked in the door, five minutes early, everyone else was seated at that long table and I heard President Hinckley say, "is Sister Hales coming?" Everyone else in that room knew that although we may joke about Mormon standard time, in the Church Administration Building they work on what I learned to call President Hinckley standard time. I have never heard President Hinckley give a talk about being on time, but you may guess that I was never again the last one to enter that room. When I think of President Hinckley's example, it reminds me how much it means to leaders, teachers and loved ones to be trusted to be at the appointed place at the appointed time--and maybe even a little bit early! When it comes to trust or being trusted, there are no unimportant items.

It’s been years since that happened, and Jess now has a husband and children of her own. She still has unanswered questions and struggles every day with the consequences of her brother’s death. But over the years, she has found some peace. And she’s seen firsthand how the teachings of the gospel and love from other people help in healing.

Over time, peace can come. “I would love to say that the ache in your heart goes away, but it doesn’t,” Jess says. “But Jesus Christ’s Atonement has healed me in ways I never thought possible.” Reading scriptures, praying, and attending church help her see the light at the end of the tunnel. Through those small things, she’s received revelation for other ways that she can find help, such as meeting with a professional counselor. Now she takes things “a minute at a time” and tries to fill her day with gratitude and service.

“I have a strong testimony that our Heavenly Father loves every single one of His children.”

My name is Alan. I’m eleven years old and a member of the Blazer patrol of Boy Scout Troop 103. We don’t get to do many things with the older Scouts, so when the Scoutmaster came to our meeting and asked how many of us wanted to go on a winter campout with the troop, every hand shot up.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “I want you to cook in patrols, so start planning your menus.”
We had to plan a supper and a breakfast for six—Josh, Justin, Russel, Mark, me, and Russel’s grandpa. “Spaghetti and garlic bread,” I suggested, and everyone else thought that sounded good. We planned to make hot chocolate and French toast for breakfast.
The campout was set for the day after Thanksgiving. The weather was cold, and there were about four inches of snow on the ground. Mom bought me a new pair of moonboots, put two quilts in our heaviest sleeping bag, and made me wear long underwear, a flannel shirt and a sweatshirt under my coat, and two pairs of socks.
We met Friday afternoon in the church parking lot. The sky was dark and cloudy. We were all waiting when Dave, the assistant Scoutmaster, pulled up in his truck and began loading the tents and camping gear. He told us that the Scoutmaster had had trouble with his truck and that he’d come up later, which he did. Dave said that he could only take two passengers with him in the cab of his truck, and he chose a couple of older Scouts to ride with him. We’d have to find another ride to the camping place. My mother offered to drive the Blazer patrol to the campsite, so we all piled into our station wagon and headed for the hills south of town.
When we came to a sign announcing that we were entering a national forest, Mom asked, “Now where do we go?”
We all looked at each other. No one knew. There was an open meadow nearby where Scouts sometimes camp, and Mom said she’d see if Dave was there. He wasn’t, and I had a sinking feeling. We waited for about an hour to see if Dave would come; then Mark remembered that one of the older Scouts had mentioned something about Lead Drop.
Russel’s grandpa said that he knew where Lead Drop was, so we all got back into the station wagon and drove to a mountain road about two miles from the meadow. The road was fine for a while, but then Russel’s grandpa said that we had to turn left and go up a steep hill. Mom’s car wouldn’t make it up the snow-covered road, so we had to get out and walk from there.
A half mile from the top of the hill we found Dave and the two other boys setting up a tent. Although we were winded after our climb, we couldn’t rest. The sun was going down, and we had to get our tent up. It was an old eight-man tent, and right away we ran into trouble. We tried to drive the stakes into the ground by stomping on them with our boots, but after they went down into six inches of snow, they hit rockhard frozen ground. Luckily, Russel’s grandpa had brought a hammerhead hatchet, and we were able to drive a few stakes solidly into the ground. We had to tie the rest of the tent tabs to trees and bushes and hope that the tent wouldn’t blow away.
When we laid out the tent poles, one of them was missing. Russel’s grandpa found a stout stick, and by shifting the poles around and using the stick, we got the tent up, though one side was a little lower than the other.
By then it was dark, and we still had to cook our supper. First we had to build a fire ring, and the only place where we could find any rocks was a small stream that ran by the camp. When we started gathering rocks, Mark picked up one that was too heavy. He staggered and stepped right into the freezing water. Mark went back to the tent and changed his socks, but he had to wear the wet boots.
We dug a pit in the snow and arranged the rocks, then borrowed wood from another patrol to start our fire. Josh was in charge of cooking, so we left him to fill the water pot while we collected more firewood. I was tugging on a branch of a dead tree when it suddenly broke loose and hit Justin on the head. It didn’t hurt him, though.
We came back to camp with our arms full of wood just in time to see Josh spill the whole package of spaghetti. It looked like a porcupine sticking out of the snow. He just picked it up, snow and all, and dumped it into the pot of water and set it in the middle of the fire. We put our foil-wrapped garlic bread at the side of the fire to get warm. I knew it only took my mom about twenty minutes to cook spaghetti, so we kept testing it, but it didn’t get soft, even though we kept throwing more wood onto the fire. Josh wondered if he should have let the water boil before he put the spaghetti in.
Finally, after more than an hour, we couldn’t wait any longer. We dumped a can of spaghetti sauce into a pan, stirred it until it started to steam, and dished it up along with the spaghetti. We all stood around the fire, crunching hard spaghetti in lukewarm sauce. By that time the garlic bread had burned, but we ate it anyway.
The cold froze our backs when we faced the fire, and our fronts when we backed up to it. After Russel got too close to the fire and burned his glove, we decided to go to bed.
Russel’s grandpa was smart. He had lugged up a propane tent heater and set it up in the middle of the tent. We arranged our coats and boots around it, and Russel scorched his boots by putting them too close. Mark had to break the ice off his socks before they’d come off. We all laid our sleeping bags in a circle around the heater with our heads toward it, except Mark. He put his feet closest to the heater.
It was hard to go to sleep. The ground had looked level when we spread out the tent, but I guess the snow covered a lot of things. I kept rolling over hard bumps, and sharp things kept sticking into me.
The next morning was beautiful. But the sun gleamed so brightly that its reflection off the snow hurt my eyes. Breakfast was much better than supper. Russel’s grandpa sort of took over the cooking chore for us, and he cooked French toast until the bread was gone. Mark dropped the jar of strawberry jam on a rock and put out our fire. I had to eat my last three pieces of French toast without any jam. I’d probably overeaten anyway, because I had a stomachache the rest of the day. We used one of the other fires to finish heating water for our cocoa.
Then the Scoutmaster called us together for some activities. We divided into teams and had a stretcher race. We had to find some sticks, make a stretcher, and carry a victim back to camp. The first team to return would be the winner. We found our sticks, made our stretcher out of coats, and, since I was the smallest, I got to be the victim. We would have won, too, except one of the sticks broke and I got dumped into a snowdrift.
For the next activity, Dave gave us a compass and a piece of paper with directions on it and said that we would find a pot of hot soup if we followed the directions correctly. We took off, with Justin counting the paces and Russel pointing the compass. But something must have disrupted our compass (Mark said a plane flew over and disoriented it), because we ended up halfway down the hill. There was no soup there, so we went back to camp. But Russel’s grandpa was looking out for us. He’d stayed in camp (where we were supposed to have ended up!) and made sure the others saved some soup for us.
While we ate, a black cloud covered the sun, and the wind began to blow. The low side of our tent dipped lower, and the Scoutmaster said that it was time to go home. We threw all the gear into the trucks, stuffed the tents on top of it, buried our fire ashes in the snow and scattered the rocks, and drove off down the mountain before a snowstorm came.
When I got home, I smelled like smoke. I was dirty and hungry and wet and cold—and I’ve never had so much fun in my life!

In the summer of 1973, I succumbed to an unexplainable urge to go to Europe in search of family history records. That is how my two granddaughters and I ended up copying records inside a large old building in Kappeln, Germany.
I had felt impressed to concentrate my limited time on searching out Grandfather Thomsen’s people. The building we were in housed the civil and religious records of Kappeln back to 1764. We did not speak German, but fortunately the English-speaking curator explained enough terms for us to understand the records.
My granddaughters and I worked as fast as we could to get the information I needed until they left for England in keeping with our plans. I felt I could not leave yet; my urge to research my grandfather’s family line now seemed like true inspiration.
It didn’t take long for the staff at the Kappeln archives to learn how important their records were to me. I was waiting at the door each morning when they opened, and I did not stop for lunch. They responded generously: not only did they allow me to stay when they closed for lunch, but they offered to open their doors an hour earlier each morning. Given my limited time, I was grateful beyond expression.
When I had searched through the births, marriages, and burials back to 1764, I wondered where to go next. I knew the records before 1764 had to be somewhere, but where? At that moment I had the impression, “You haven’t looked.” Somewhat astonished, I went to the building’s vault and muttered, “Where haven’t I looked?”
Some large books on the top shelf caught my eye. I mused to myself, I’ll bet the records are in those big books that no one has looked at for ages. To reach them I had to step on the bottom shelf. As I reached with my right hand to remove one of the large volumes, I placed my left hand in a recessed corner to brace myself and felt something there. After retrieving the massive book from the top shelf, I looked to see what I had felt with my left hand. It turned out to be a much smaller book. Its cover was the same color as the shelves, an unobtrusive tan. I opened it. Old Gothic script spread across the page. What was it?
I flipped to the back where the writing was more modern and found the name of a child born to parents whose records I had already assembled going back as far as I could—to 1765. I was now looking at the record of an older child born to those same parents in 1763.
I was afraid to hope, but as soon as the staff returned from lunch I took the book to the archivist. After some discussion, he told me that the book was, in fact, just what I had thought—a record of christenings in Kappeln going back to the mid-1600s. “This is the Kappeln record, but we have never seen this record here,” he said.
I made arrangements with the staff to have a copy made. The 101 sheets I received produced many names my family and I would later submit for temple work. Paper copies and a film of the book are now available in the Church Family History Library.
I gratefully acknowledge the help the Lord gives those who sincerely seek their ancestors. This experience confirmed to me the wisdom of the scripture: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:5–6).

In Chile, in order to go to college, you have to take a university placement test. I wanted to study engineering at a university that was far from where I lived. It would be very expensive, so my goal was to get the highest score possible on the placement test so I could earn a scholarship for outstanding exam scores.
I knew where and what I wanted to study, and I knew what I would have to do to make it happen. I started preparing for the test. I studied, read, and reviewed the material, but on the practice tests, I still wasn’t getting the score I needed. I turned to my Heavenly Father in prayer and asked Him for greater intelligence and to enlighten my understanding so I could reach my goal. I prayed for this daily for an entire year. I went to special preparation classes at my school, and I enrolled in classes at an institution that was geared toward preparing for the exam.
I kept up my daily scripture study, and I never missed a day of seminary. I fulfilled all my Aaronic Priesthood assignments and never studied on Sundays, no matter how desperate the situation was. I knew Sunday is the Lord’s day, and I wanted to respect it in the way my parents had taught me. I knew I couldn’t afford to deprive myself of the blessings Heavenly Father had for me, especially when I most needed them. Despite all this, I wasn’t getting the score I needed on my practice tests.
My family and I prayed and fasted, and my dad gave me a blessing. With this spiritual preparation and my other preparation, I took the test. Not only did I end up with the score I needed, but I exceeded my goal, scoring one of the highest percentages possible in the math section. I received the scholarships and benefits I needed, and I was able to study at the university I chose.
From the time I was young, I learned that if I did everything I could and took care of my spiritual responsibilities first, then Heavenly Father would bless me. Things might not always work out the way we expect them to, but God will take care of us. I know it’s only with His help that all things are possible.
The author lives in Cautín Province, Chile.

While the men worked on a shallop (small open boat) from the ship, hauling it up onto the beach for repairs, the women went ashore to wash clothes. After the shallop was repaired, Miles Standish, the military captain of the colony, with Captain Jones and a group of men, most of them Pilgrims, set out to explore. Daily they prayed for guidance.
On December 21, the travelers stepped ashore at the site of a deserted Indian village. Old and weathered cornstalks rattled in the breeze where land had been cleared. A brook sparkled and babbled down a hillside. Nearby was an excellent harbor. In one field was a great hill that commanded a view of the sea and land roundabout. Why the place had been deserted was a mystery.
“We’ll build our new Plymouth here,” Captain Standish announced.
When they returned to the Mayflower, William White looked anxiously about the deck for his wife, Susanna. Then he saw her coming toward him. Placing a tiny bundle in his arms, she said, “My husband, our little son was born while you were gone.”
Tenderly, William uncovered the tiny pink face. “So our little traveler has arrived,” he said, beaming.
Standing by, Governor Carver exclaimed, “Aye, William, your little son is the first white child we know of to be born in New England. He should be called Peregrine (traveler).”
“Peregrine White,” William mused. “That is what he shall be called.” Then noticing Ellen’s eager upturned face, he asked, “Do you want to hold the baby?”
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. Gently he laid the bundle in her arms, and Ellen smiled with pleasure.

I experience this as the Primary general president. My calling is to care not only for the children in our church, but for the children in all of the world. This is a tremendous responsibility, and at first I could feel only the burden of it. But I seek for the Lord’s help constantly. I pray for enough strength and insight to do the work I have been called to do, and for the leaders around the world, that they might have the Spirit of the Lord to help them love and understand the children for whom they are responsible. I plead with Heavenly Father to give each teacher a sense of deep responsibility, so that they might help the children to know the gospel of love. I pray for parents to love and teach their children.

Then, just the other morning, I thought, “I have been asking for so much. This morning I am not going to ask for one thing. I’m just going to be grateful.” I knelt and thanked the Lord for my good health, for my understanding husband, for our children, for our missionary son, for the privilege of serving, for the board members and staff who assist me, for stake and ward members throughout the world who are serving, and especially for the teachers who give and care so much. I thanked him for the children everywhere. I thanked him for the prophet. And the list went on. My spirit soared. What an astounding experience to know that I have so much! It takes a grateful heart to experience that soaring, that realization of how much Heavenly Father loves you, how much he does for you.

Perhaps I can place in clearer perspective all that I have said about the oath and covenant of the priesthood by relating a story based on a true experience.

The son of a very wealthy man was called to serve a full-time mission. He entered the mission field and began his work. At first things went well; however, as he met rejections and as other challenges of finding and teaching surfaced, the young man’s faith wavered.

Mission associates gave encouragement, but it did not seem to help. One day the young man announced to the mission president that he was abandoning his call; he was returning home. The mission president did all within his power to dissuade the missionary. It was to no avail.

When word of the missionary’s decision reached the father, he obtained permission to visit his son in the mission field. In one of many tense conversations, the father said, “My son, I have lived for the day when you would serve a full-time mission. I did so because I love you and I love God. And I know that there is no work more essential than that of teaching truth to the peoples of the world.”

Somewhat sobered by his father’s words, the son meekly replied, “Dad, I didn’t realize that a mission meant so much to you.”

“It means everything to me,” the father declared. Then he added with some emotion, “All my life I have worked and saved with one person in mind: you. And my one goal has been to provide you a decent inheritance.”

“But Dad,” the son interjected, “the work is difficult and I don’t enjoy …”

The father didn’t allow him to finish his sentence. Instead he asked, “How can I trust my businesses to your care if you cannot prove yourself by serving the Lord for two short years?”

There was an awkward pause as the son pondered the father’s question and studied his anxious countenance.

Then with measured words, the father promised, “My son, my only heir, if you will be faithful in this calling and prove yourself worthy in every respect, all that I possess will be yours.”

Noticeably touched by these earnest pleadings, the son rose to his feet, embraced his father, and sobbed, “I will stay.”

The son did stay in the mission field; he did serve faithfully from that day forward. And yes, in due time, he received from his father the promised inheritance, even all that his father had to share.

A great burden to me during my growing-up years was the fact that my folks were not active in the Church. I sensed that I was missing out on many of the things that others were enjoying. The depression was on. Jobs were hard to get. Because of this, our family moved frequently. Though we had to do without many material things, that never seemed a hardship to me. But always there was the longing that my parents would feel the importance of church activity. I loved them dearly and it hurt to see what was happening in our home. The Word of Wisdom was not observed. There was not the closeness and solidarity that appeared to be in the homes of my friends. I craved that peaceful atmosphere that was lacking. Fortunately, each place we moved there were good people who would encourage me and welcome me. I came to know the importance of the Church and the gospel. It hurt so much on the day of my wedding when my parents were not able to enter the temple but remained outside while that special ceremony took place. I am happy to report that later, through the help of caring friends and my loving husband, my parents did become active and were able to enjoy those blessing they had missed for so many years.

Just recently my mother and I returned to the neighborhood where we had lived when I was baptized. The area is shabby and forlorn. The house where we lived looked so tiny and run down. A great feeling of sadness came over me, not because of the humble circumstances, but because I vividly remembered how I felt as a child, knowing I was missing blessings that could have been mine.

There was snow on the ground and decorations were everywhere. Christmas music played on the radio and people smiled and laughed and shouted, “Merry Christmas!” But this year there was an added excitement for Breana, who told her mother, “I can’t wait!”
Mother laughed. “You say that every year, but somehow you do.”
“But this year is different!” Breana exclaimed. “For nine long years I’ve wanted to be a sister, and now I’m going to be one for Christmas.”
“The baby could come after Christmas,” Mother teased.
“No,” Breana said confidently. “This Christmas I will finally be somebody’s sister.”
Mother hugged Breana to her. “I’m glad you’re so happy.”
“I’ll feed the baby and change its diapers. I’ll be the best babytender in the whole world!” Breana promised.
“I’m sure you will be.” Mother smoothed her daughter’s curly black hair as she walked over to the kitchen sink to start dinner.
Breana sat down at the table and watched. She remembered how graceful and slender her mother used to be. Now she was big and moved awkwardly about the room. Sometimes she stopped her work and rubbed her back.
Breana’s eyes drifted until they settled on the paper-sculpture nativity scene she and Mother had carefully cut out and arranged on the buffet. The figure of Joseph was hovering over Mary as though trying to protect her. Mary was sitting on piled hay with the baby Jesus held tenderly in her arms. The shepherds seemed to be afraid to come too close, yet strained to be as close as they dared. Breana almost thought she could see them moving slightly forward to get a better look at the precious baby.
“Do you want salad with dinner?” Mother interrupted Breana’s thoughts.
“That sounds good,” Breana answered. “Can I help you make it?”
“Of course,” Mother answered.
Breana walked to her mother’s side and began tearing apart the lettuce.
“Just four more days,” Mother said. “Do you really think the baby will get there before Christmas?”
Breana’s eyes turned again to the nativity scene. There was something tender about the way Mary looked at her baby.
“Yes,” Breana said slowly. “I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Mother sighed and rubbed her back again.
“Are you all right?” Breana asked.
“Yes,” Mother answered. “I just feel tired.”
“You go sit down,” Breana said. “I can finish the salad.”
Slowly Mother walked over to the kitchen table. Breana watched as she awkwardly braced herself against the table and then slowly lowered herself into a chair. She must hurt, Breana thought and once more looked at the paper statue of Mary.
“How do you think she ever rode the donkey all that way?” Breana asked.
“Who?” Mother asked.
“Mary—before Jesus was born. How could she have traveled all the way to Bethlehem on a donkey? She must have been big and uncomfortable too.”
A tear appeared in the corner of Mother’s eye. “I’m sure it was hard for her,” Mother answered. And she, too, stared at the nativity scene.
For a long moment neither said anything. The tear in mother’s eye slid onto her cheek and she wiped it off with her hand.
“I feel so close to Mary and Joseph and the Christ child,” Breana said. “Closer than I’ve ever felt before. I just know this is going to be the best Christmas ever.”
It was nearly morning when Breana’s father tiptoed into her room and gently shook her shoulder until she opened her eyes.
“Breana, you’re a sister!”
“What?” Breana jerked around and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
“You have a brand new baby brother.”
Breana threw her arms around her father’s neck. “At last! I’m finally a sister,” she said. “How’s Mother? When can they come home from the hospital? What are we going to name the baby?”
“Wait, Breana, honey. One question at a time. Your mother is fine and the doctor said she could come home Christmas Eve day.”
“That’s wonderful!” Breana exclaimed.
“And your mother said to ask you for suggestions about names,” Father said.
“That’s easy,” Breana responded. “I think we should name him Joseph.”
Father nodded his head thoughtfully.
“That’s a good suggestion. And now, young lady, back to sleep.”
Father left the room, but Breana was too excited to sleep. Finally she tiptoed into the kitchen and turned on the small light over the stove. It seemed to give the nativity scene on the buffet a luminous and dreamy appearance. “I waited so very long to be a sister,” she whispered. “But the whole world waited for this baby.”
Breana walked over to the nativity and traced the outline of the tiny baby with her finger and stared once more into Mary’s face. “You must have been the first person on earth to love Jesus,” she said softly. “And I’m going to be one of the first people on earth to love our new baby.”
She ran her finger once more over the blue blanket (see Luke 2:7) and as she did a thought struck her, almost jolted her. Breana smiled. “All the time I was waiting to become a sister, but I already was one and didn’t realize it!” she murmured.
Breana looked once more at the baby in Mary’s arms, then turned out the light and went back to bed.
The next two days seemed as though they would never end, but at last it was Christmas Eve day. Father and Breana went to the hospital to get Mother and the baby.
Mother kissed Breana’s cheek and asked, “Do you want to hold Joseph?”
“Joseph?” Breana cried.
“What better name for a Christmas brother!” Father said, smiling.
Breana held out her arms and Mother gently placed the baby in them. A warm and loving feeling filled Breana. “It feels so good to be a sister,” she said. Carefully she pulled the blanket back from Joseph’s red pudgy face and smiled at him.
“He’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. Already she knew she loved him. Already she felt that she had known him forever and ever.
Suddenly she was aware of “Silent Night” being played on the car radio. She remembered the nativity scene and Mary holding her baby, a baby who was also her Brother! They would celebrate His birthday tomorrow.