Gospel Story Finder

Since childhood, Elder Carlos G. Revillo Jr. desired to serve a full-time mission. But in college, he decided to postpone his mission by a year to finish a five-year chemical engineering degree and pass national board certification exams. He landed in the top five in the board exams and received several good job offers from multinational companies.
“During that time, I had to ask myself, ‘Do I really want to serve a mission? Do I really know that Joseph Smith was a true prophet and that the Book of Mormon is true?’” Elder Revillo said. “I had to pray and really look at what I believed.”
Later he learned that his mother was praying and fasting for him. Elder Revillo said the Spirit touched his heart.
“My testimony was fully galvanized when I served a full-time mission,” he said. “All of the blessings that I have now I attribute to that critical decision.”

Normally Kylie would rather be playing basketball or watching a cat video—or doing anything besides homework. But Saturn was Kylie’s favorite planet, and she got to do her research project about it! Her eyes scanned the computer screen until she spotted an article about Saturn’s rings. This looks like a good one! she thought.
Click.
Suddenly something unexpected popped up on the screen. It was a picture of a person not wearing clothes. Kylie felt sick and scared. This is pornography! she thought. But the computer was supposed to have a filter that screened out bad things. What happened to the filter?
Kylie turned off the computer. She ran into her bedroom and knelt by her bed. “I didn’t want to see that bad picture,” she prayed. “Please take it out of my mind.”
As the week went by, Kylie kept asking Heavenly Father to erase the picture from her mind. But sometimes when she was reading a book or hanging out with her friends, the picture would pop back into her head. She felt guilty every time that happened, and she worried that Heavenly Father might be mad at her.
Finally, one night after the other kids were in bed, Kylie walked slowly toward the kitchen, her heart beating fast.
“Mom and Dad, I have something to tell you. I saw something bad on the computer. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t be mad at me.” She started crying.
Dad put his arm around Kylie’s shoulder. “Tell us about it.”
Kylie let it all spill out—how upsetting it was to see the picture, how she’d prayed and worried. “We’re so sorry you saw that,” Dad said. “But we’re even more sorry that you’ve felt so scared and guilty.”
“I’m going to check the filter right now,” Mom said, walking over to the computer.
Kylie still wondered about something. “Has Heavenly Father forgiven me?” she asked Dad.
“Heavenly Father loves you, and He knows exactly what’s in your heart and your mind,” Dad said. “He wants us to not look at bad things because they’re not good for us. But He knows you saw it by accident. And even if you’d seen that on purpose, He loves us and He forgives us when we repent.”
“But He hasn’t taken the picture away from my mind. I can still see it!”
Dad stroked Kylie’s hair. “When you see something shocking, sometimes your brain remembers it more. But as time passes, and you fill your mind with good things, they’ll start pushing the bad things away.”
“You mean things like scriptures and Primary songs?”
“Sure,” Dad said. “And things you love, like puzzles and art and friends.”
“What about basketball and cats?” Kylie asked.
“Those are very good things!” Dad said.
Mom joined them. “I fixed the filter,” she said. “But there’s another filter that will never fail. The Holy Ghost helps us recognize when things are bad. He can always help us.”
Kylie nodded. She knew the Holy Ghost was helping her feel warm and peaceful, telling her that Heavenly Father loved her and that her parents loved her too.
“Now can I fill my mind with something good?” she asked.
“Sure,” Mom said. “What do you want?”
Kylie thought for a minute. “How about a cat video?”
Mom grinned. “Coming right up!”

Robert Nay is only in ninth grade, but he has already written an app that took the #1 spot on the Apple App Store just two weeks after it was released.
Why did you decide to make an app? Late last summer a friend’s dad said that I should try making an iPhone app, because he knew that I was good with computers and stuff. I thought it would be pretty cool, so I made it a goal to come up with an iPhone app and have it on the App Store. And I finally made it.
Do you have any advice for other teens trying to reach their goals? Just try it and go for your dreams, because you can make it. I just tried it and didn’t think it would do nearly this well. I just wanted to do it.

A few years ago, I was afforded the privilege to serve as a mission president and became intimately acquainted with more than four hundred missionaries. We had one young missionary who was very ill. After weeks of hospitalization, as the doctor prepared to undertake extremely serious and complicated surgery, he asked that we send for the missionary’s mother and father. He advised there was a possibility the patient would not survive the surgery.
The parents came. Late one evening, the father and I entered a hospital room in Toronto, Canada, placed our hands upon the head of the young missionary, and gave him a blessing. What happened following that blessing was a testimony to me.
The missionary was in a six-bed ward in the hospital. The other beds were occupied by five men with a variety of illnesses. The morning of his surgery, the missionary’s bed was empty. The nurse came into the room with the breakfast these men normally ate. She took a tray over to the patient in bed number one and said, “Fried eggs this morning, and I have an extra portion for you!”
The occupant of bed number one had suffered an accident with his lawnmower. Other than an injured toe, he was well physically. He said to the nurse, “I’ll not be eating this morning.”
“All right, we shall give your breakfast to your partner in bed number two.”
As she approached that patient, he said, “I think I’ll not eat this morning.”
Each of the five men declined breakfast. The young lady exclaimed, “Other mornings you eat us out of house and home, and today not one of you wants to eat! What is the reason?”
Then the man who occupied bed number six answered: “You see, bed number three is empty. Our friend is in the operating room under the surgeon’s hands. He needs all the help he can get. He is a missionary for his church, and while we have been patients in this ward, he has talked to us about the principles of his church—principles of prayer, of faith, of fasting wherein we call upon the Lord for blessings.” He continued, “We don’t know much about the Mormon church, but we have learned a great deal about our friend; and we are fasting for him today.”
The operation was a success. When I attempted to pay the doctor, he countered, “Why, it would be dishonest for me to accept a fee. I have never before performed surgery when my hands seemed to be guided by a Power which was other than my own. No,” he said, “I wouldn’t take a fee for the surgery which Someone on high literally helped me to perform.”

That was a lesson for Katelyn. She had had difficulty seeing this kind of potential in herself. As a Beehive, she looked up to the other young women, but she didn’t feel like she had anything to contribute to her Beehive class. At school she felt pressure to try to be popular and fit in. “It’s hard when other people try to tell me what I am supposed to look like, act like, and do well at.”

One night for Mutual each young woman received a piece of paper with a name on it. The paper was passed around the room and each young woman wrote talents, abilities, or admirable traits about the young woman whose name was on the paper. As Katelyn read the kind words that the other Beehives wrote about her, she realized that the other girls saw talents and gifts that she had never seen in herself. That experience, coupled with her efforts visiting the hospital, “have taught me a lot about my role here.”

Consider this letter from one lovely young woman:
“I’m writing this,” she said, “from the depths of a broken heart, in the hope that it may be a warning to other girls never to partake of the bitterness that has come to me. I would give all that I have or ever hope to have if I could go back to those happy, carefree days before the first little taint of sin came upon my heart. I scarcely realized I was slipping into something that could bring such sorrow and ruin into a person’s life.
“I wish I could reveal to you the anguish and regret that fill my heart today, the loss of self-respect and the realization that life’s most priceless gift has slipped away from me. I reached out too eagerly for the excitements and thrills of life, and they have turned to ashes in my hands.”
This young woman, unfortunately, discovered that the heaviest burden one may have to bear in this life is “the burden of sin.” (Harold B. Lee, “Stand Ye in Holy Places,” Ensign, July 1973, p. 122.)

That experience made it somewhat easier for me to make a difficult decision just one year later. Again Christmastime had come. We were preparing for the oven a gigantic turkey and anticipating the savory feast that awaited. A neighborhood pal of mine asked a startling question: “What does turkey taste like?”
I responded, “Oh, about like chicken tastes.”
Again a question: “What does chicken taste like?”
It was then that I realized my friend had never eaten chicken or turkey. I asked what his family was going to have for their holiday dinner. There was no prompt response, just a downcast glance and the comment, “I dunno. There’s nothing in the house.”
I pondered a solution. There was none. I had no turkeys, no chickens, no money. Then I remembered I did have two pet rabbits. Immediately I placed them in a box and handed the box to my friend with the comment, “Here, take these two rabbits. They’re good to eat—just like chicken.”
He took the box, climbed the fence, and headed for home—a Christmas dinner safely assured. Tears came easily to me as I closed the door to the empty rabbit hutch. But I was not sad. A warmth, a feeling of indescribable joy, filled my heart. It was a memorable Christmas.

After a lifetime of practice and patience together, what will your last earthly threshold look like? Will it look and feel something like John and Therissa Clarks’? In 1921 John Haslem Clark of Manti, Utah, wrote what became his last journal entry:
“The folks have been here today, but have gone to their homes. The clatter of racing feet, the laughter and babble of tongues have ceased. We are alone, We two. We two whom destiny has made one. Long ago, it has been sixty years since we met under the June trees. I kissed you first. How shy and afraid was your girlhood. Not any woman on earth or in heaven could be to me what you are. I would rather you were here, woman, with your gray hair, than any fresh blossom of youth. Where you are is home. Where you are not is homesickness. As I look at you I realize that there is something greater than love, although love is the greatest thing in earth. It is loyalty. For were I driven away in shame you would follow. If I were burning in fever your cool hand would soothe me. With your hand in mine may I pass and take my place among the saved of Heaven. Being eight years the eldest—and as the years went by and I felt that the time of parting might be near—it was often the drift of our thought and speech: how could either of us be left alone. Alone, after living together for 56 years. I scarcely dared think of it and though a bit selfish comforted myself thinking [that] according to our age I would not be the one left alone.”
Another handwriting then appears later on the same page. It is Therissa’s voice, gently closing John’s journal:
“Almost two years and a half since the last writing, and its following events are so sad, so heartbreaking for this, his life’s companion that this pen has been laid down many times ere this record is made. Loss and loneliness [are] ever present and will be with me to the end. … Will time soften this sadness, will I be able to leave the Old Home and not feel that he is waiting for me, calling me? I am only content at home where I feel that he is watching over me, his presence always with me.
“On March 11, 1923, John Haslem Clark passed away after an illness of only one week. He seemed so like himself, talking and active. We had no thought that the end was near until he passed into unconsciousness a few hours before his death. Oh, may we all be as clean and pure, ready to go before our Maker.”10
We do not know the details of John and Therissa’s life as they crossed over the thresholds of their days. But we do know how 56 years of daily conversations finally shaped the kind of people they became, the kind of love they knew.

As a young man I was called as a ward missionary and enjoyed proselyting with the missionaries. I also watched as some of the young men in our ward went on missions. When they returned, they were different. They were more learned and mature, both physically and spiritually. My older brother also served a mission. When he returned, I saw many improvements in his behavior. I kept asking myself, “What is it about a mission that makes all these people change and grow so much?” I became enthusiastic about going on a mission.
After I finished high school, I was working to save money for a mission. Soon my desire to serve a mission became lost because I enjoyed the money I was making. It would have been a sacrifice to go on a mission because the money I earned helped support my family. Each time I started filling out my mission forms, I thought about the money I would be giving up, and I dropped my forms and continued working.
As my friends left on missions, I felt bad because I knew I should also be getting ready to go. This caused me to examine myself. I thought, “Sustaining the prophet and my leaders is not just raising my right hand. It’s doing what they say and obeying our Heavenly Father’s commandments.”
Now was the time to serve a mission, so I submitted my mission papers to the bishop. It was the second happiest day of my life. The happiest was the day my bishop called me to his office and gave me a white envelope with my mission call to the Nigeria Ibadan Mission. My heart was full of joy.
In the missionary training center, I became better acquainted with the doctrines of the gospel and learned marvelous things. I was also able to receive my endowment in the temple. I am so grateful for my decision to come on a mission, and I have never regretted it. I too have grown spiritually on my mission. I believe it is because I am helping people receive the same gospel blessings that have brought so much happiness to me and my family.

Too often I have failed to express gratitude for the faith and goodness of such people in my life. President James E. Faust stood at this pulpit 13 years ago and said, “As a small boy … , I remember my grandmother … cooking our delicious meals on a hot woodstove. When the wood box next to the stove became empty, Grandmother would silently … go out to refill it from the pile of cedar wood outside, and bring the heavily laden box back into the house. I was so insensitive … [that] I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill [that] box.” Then, his voice choking with emotion, he said, “I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my omission for all of my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.”3
If a man as perfect as I felt President Faust was can acknowledge his youthful oversight, I can do no less than make a similar admission and pay a long-overdue tribute of my own today.
When I was called to serve a mission back before the dawn of time, there was no equalization of missionary costs. Each had to bear the full expense of the mission to which he or she was sent. Some missions were very expensive, and as it turned out, mine was one of those.
When I was called to serve a mission back before the dawn of time, there was no equalization of missionary costs. Each had to bear the full expense of the mission to which he or she was sent. Some missions were very expensive, and as it turned out, mine was one of those.
As we encourage missionaries to do, I had saved money and sold personal belongings to pay my own way as best I could. I thought I had enough money, but I wasn’t sure how it would be in the final months of my mission. With that question on my mind, I nevertheless blissfully left my family for the greatest experience anyone could hope to have. I loved my mission as I am sure no young man has ever loved one before or since.
Then I returned home just as my parents were called to serve a mission of their own. What would I do now? How in the world could I pay for a college education? How could I possibly pay for board and room? And how could I realize the great dream of my heart, to marry the breathtakingly perfect Patricia Terry? I don’t mind admitting that I was discouraged and frightened.
Hesitantly I went to the local bank and asked the manager, a family friend, how much was in my account. He looked surprised and said, “Why, Jeff, it’s all in your account. Didn’t they tell you? Your parents wanted to do what little they could to help you get started when you got home. They didn’t withdraw a cent during your mission. I supposed that you knew.”
Well, I didn’t know. What I do know is that my dad, a self-educated accountant, a “bookkeeper” as they were called in our little town, with very few clients, probably never wore a new suit or a new shirt or a new pair of shoes for two years so his son could have all of those for his mission. Furthermore, what I did not know but then came to know was that my mother, who had never worked out of the home in her married life, took a job at a local department store so that my mission expenses could be met. And not one word of that was ever conveyed to me on my mission. Not a single word was said regarding any of it. How many fathers in this Church have done exactly what my father did? And how many mothers, in these difficult economic times, are still doing what my mother did?
My father has been gone for 34 years, so like President Faust, I will have to wait to fully thank him on the other side. But my sweet mother, who turns 95 next week, is happily watching this broadcast today at her home in St. George, so it’s not too late to thank her. To you, Mom and Dad, and to all the moms and dads and families and faithful people everywhere, I thank you for sacrificing for your children (and for other people’s children!), for wanting so much to give them advantages you never had, for wanting so much to give them the happiest life you could provide.

In 2016—in the midst of nearly three decades of marriage, bearing and nurturing and loving our three sons, practicing law full-time, serving in Church callings, and attending to the needs of our extended family—my husband, Doug, and I were called to serve for three years as mission leaders in Arequipa, Peru. We left just after our first grandson was born.
We returned home in 2019 to two new granddaughters. Our two oldest sons were married, and the youngest was in love and soon to be married. I returned to practicing law, and my favorite calling was as Mom and Grammy.
And then the call came to serve as the Primary General President. The comfortable narrative I had written for myself was spending time with my family, another decade practicing law to ensure financial security, and serving in my ward or in the temple.
What if I had stuck with this comfortable narrative?
I would have enjoyed spending more time with my grandchildren and I could have been assured some financial security. And I would have missed a stretching, soul-searching, and faith-building experience. Uphill? Yes. Worth it? Oh, yes!

After church Tara puts away her shiny shoes.
She looks at her Book of Mormon picture book.
She draws a picture to send to her auntie.
While Dad and Mom make dinner, Tara plays with her baby brother.
Then she sets the table.
“Tara, thank you for helping our family have a happy Sabbath day!” says Dad.
Trace your finger along the line to help Tara move through her Sabbath day. Can you tell what she does to make Sunday a happy day?

Being an intern for the New Era magazine is definitely a thrill. I get to discuss the exciting future of the youth of the Church, learn about how the Church magazines operate, and write to my heart’s content.
Of course the job does have a few snags—I have to wear dresses every day, I have to be here at practically the crack of dawn, and riding the elevator up to the 23rd floor of the Church Office Building after lunch makes me queasy. But the benefits by far outweigh the costs.
The only thing missing from this opportunity of a lifetime is an office with a window. Of course, I’m a bit out of line wanting one—I think you have to work here about 20 years before you get that blessing. But one day one of the editors called in sick. I knew what that meant. I’d get to use her office for the day, and I’d have windows.
For about the first 15 minutes, I didn’t get anything done; I was too busy enjoying the view. The office faced west, and I had before me an unsurpassed view of Temple Square and its surroundings. Moroni was sparkling in the sunlight, and it was the first time I’d ever seen him without getting a crick in my neck.
I watched the ant-sized people milling about the grounds. I saw a wedding party trying to organize itself for the photographer, flower beds aglow with spring blossoms, and magnificent structures built to give glory to the Lord.
Then I looked beyond the temple grounds to the surrounding city. Somehow, it paled in comparison. The grass wasn’t as green, and the people didn’t seem quite as buoyant. I saw grim asphalt parking lots, dusty train yards, and a tan layer of air covering the valley.
Then I looked up at the sky, and a thought popped into my head. This must be what it’s like for Heavenly Father. I wondered what he thinks as he observes his children from on high. I found the answer in the scriptures.
In Psalms 14:2, David says the Lord “looked down from heaven upon the children of men, to see if there were any that did understand, and seek God.” [Ps. 14:2] and again in Jeremiah 31:28, the Lord speaks of watching his children, saying, “As I have watched over them, to pluck up, and to break down, and to throw down, and to destroy, and to afflict; so will I watch over them, to build, and to plant, saith the Lord.” [Jer. 31:28] The Lord watched over the children of Israel during times of joy, sorrow, obedience, and transgression—just as he watches us now. And although we aren’t always as righteous as we should be, he is always there.
It’s reassuring to know that the Lord is always watching and will not forsake us.
Tomorrow, I return to my storage-closet-turned-intern-office. I’ll still envy others’ windows, but I’ll have quite a different perspective on the world than I did before.

We are also blessed by temple covenants and ordinances, where “the power of godliness is manifest.” I visited a woman who had lost a teenage daughter in a terrible accident, then later her husband to cancer. I asked how she could endure such loss and suffering. She replied that strength came from spiritual reassurances of an eternal family, received during regular temple worship. As promised, the ordinances of the Lord’s house had armed her with God’s power.

Several years ago I was riding on a train from Edinburgh, Scotland, to Glasgow with a noted British lawyer. We had engaged him to present our claim of discrimination by the city council of Glasgow. We were seeking a building permit, which had been repeatedly denied by the city council at the instigation of an opposing ministerial group as not needed inasmuch as there was an abundance of vacant or unused church buildings. We had been granted a hearing before the secretary of state for Scotland, a member of the prime minister’s cabinet.
As the early morning train sped toward Glasgow, I asked the distinguished counsel if he had any additional questions about our church. I was concerned about his limited understanding of our expansion, of why we were building modern church buildings and why we had hundreds of missionaries in Great Britain. He assured me that he was quite comfortable in representing us and presenting our case that to him appeared to have merit.
As we discussed other aspects of our growing presence in Great Britain, he said, “I hear, but it couldn’t be true, that you baptize for dead people.”
I said, “Yes, it is true—not only true that we do it today, but the eternal principle of vicarious service of baptism for the dead was taught during our Savior’s earthly ministry.”
I explained that all of God’s worthy children of all ages can become heirs of salvation in His kingdom. I briefly reminded the lawyer of Jesus teaching Nicodemus that “except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.
“Nicodemus [said] unto him, How can a man be born [again] when he is old? can he enter the second time into his mother’s womb, and be born?
“Jesus answered, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God” (John 3:3–5).
I also made reference to the early Apostles’ teachings regarding Christ’s resurrection and the resurrection of all, including Paul’s great statement: “Else what shall they do which are baptized for the dead, if the dead rise not at all? why are they then baptized for the dead?” (1 Cor. 15:29).
The engaged lawyer seemed comfortable. He presented our case effectively. We won our building permit. The chapel now stands in Glasgow, Scotland.

I wanted to be alone, to think, to meditate. There was something wrong, but I couldn’t tell what. Finally I arrived at the subway station; then digging into my pocket, I pulled out a quarter. I rode up to Park Street Station; a hundred blank faces rode with me. I didn’t know where they came from or where they were going; they didn’t know where I came from or where I was going. We didn’t care. The subway pulled into the station, and everyone pushed and shoved his way off. Something still haunted me. All the way home I did not see a single person although the streets were full of people. I was too involved in thought.
At home I was greeted by warm feelings. I have never felt fear or emptiness there. I was more quiet than usual at dinner. I watched as my wonderful and beautiful parents ate; I could tell, just by their actions, that they loved life and, more importantly, the gospel. What was it that made them radiate?
The following day I was in another “thinking mood.” As I walked to Longfellow Park, I thought of that great writer and the inspiration and influence he brought to so many people. Why could he do this? I was then reminded of my questions of the night before. As I thought, I remembered a little button the missionaries wear on their coats as a missionary tool. They’re red and white buttons and say, “I Care.” That was it! That was why my parents, and the missionaries, and Longfellow radiated and inspired others so much. They cared about people. That had been my problem; I didn’t care about the people I didn’t know. I decided to try it their way—I would try to care about people I didn’t even know.

I was introduced to a trail in Israel by my good friend Ilan. “It’s called the Jesus Trail,” he said, “because it’s the path from Nazareth to Capernaum that many believe Jesus walked.” I decided right then and there I wanted to walk that trail, so I began planning a trip to Israel.
Six weeks before the trip, I broke my ankle. My husband worried about the injury; my greatest concern was how I would walk the Jesus Trail one month later. I am stubborn by nature, so I didn’t cancel the plane tickets.
I remember meeting our Israeli guide that beautiful June morning. I hopped out of the van and then pulled out a set of crutches and a knee scooter. Mya, our guide, took one look at my cast and said, “Uh, I don’t think you can walk this trail in that condition.”
“Maybe not,” I replied. “But there’s nothing that prevents me from trying.” She gave a slight nod, and we began. I love her for that, for believing I could walk the trail broken.
I navigated the steep path and the boulders for a time on my own. Then, moved by the sincerity of my commitment, Mya pulled out a thin rope, tied it to the handlebars of my scooter, and began to pull. She pulled me up the hills, through lemon orchards, and along the banks of the Sea of Galilee. At the journey’s end, I expressed gratitude for my sweet guide, who had helped me accomplish something I could have never accomplished on my own.

My brothers, sister, and I were taught to believe in God, and we said prayers at dinnertime. But that was the extent of our religious education. My mother was raised in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but my father was not. I guess over the years they found it easier to avoid discussing religion than to quarrel over it.
I am the youngest in the family. My brothers and sister are much older and very protective. I believed everything would always be easy.
In my early years at school, my grades were pretty good. But as the years went by, my grades began to drop. My parents often discussed “what to do about Dane.”
They tried to get me to do my assignments, but nothing worked. Teachers, counselors, school administrators, and my parents threatened punishments, but my grades got worse each year. By the time I was in seventh grade, everything was falling apart.
That was also the year our family fell apart. Two weeks after Christmas my parents separated, and later they divorced. My two oldest brothers and my sister had graduated and moved away. That left my brother Lee and me at home with our mother, and Lee was a senior in high school. To make matters worse, we had big financial problems. My mother believed we had hit rock bottom. But that’s when things began to look up.
One day my mom and I had a serious talk. We talked about her upbringing in the Church, and she said she knew she could turn to God for help. She also said she believed if I went to church, it might turn me around in school. I had attended church a few times with a Latter-day Saint friend and had also attended Bible classes at other churches, but my family had not been to church since before I was born. Since my mom was suffering because of the divorce and the loss of income, I didn’t want to add to her problems. I decided to listen to the missionary lessons.
My mother invited Lee to sit in on the lessons too, but he was caught up in his school activities. He sat in on the first discussion, but then he always seemed to have something else to do when the elders visited. My mom and I began attending church together, and things started to feel right. I was baptized that spring. I started studying harder at school, too. And that also helped me feel good inside.
Before joining the Church, I had experimented with cigarettes and alcohol and hung around with kids who made me feel comfortable—kids who were doing poorly in school and who were often with me in the detention class. But when the bishop interviewed me and I made the commitment to get baptized, I promised to obey the Word of Wisdom. I found I liked holding the priesthood, passing the sacrament, and getting praise for doing good things instead of always being in trouble. These positive feelings started to influence my life outside of church. And as I shared my testimony with my friends, I started to see who my true friends really were.
Now, a couple of years after my baptism, I have served as deacons quorum president and as teachers quorum president. I’m on the school’s academic team and have high enough grades to be allowed to play sports. I’ve tried to remain friends with the guys I used to hang around with, but I don’t go out with them much anymore. We’re still on good terms, but we have different interests now. I’m involved in Mutual and have been concentrating on my schoolwork.

When I was a baby, I was baptized into the Orthodox Church of Ukraine. Growing up, the fact that I never made the choice to be baptized unsettled me. I started to think that religion didn’t allow me the freedom to choose for myself.
So I eventually stopped believing in God or anything spiritual.
One day, I was talking to my friend who was in Czechia doing a study program affiliated with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She invited me to do the program too. I wasn’t interested originally, but after a while, I decided to check it out.
I liked the school’s overall message of positivity, so I gave in and applied.
But I had no interest in the program’s focus on Jesus Christ.
Or so I thought.
This academy made me live differently than I was used to. First, I learned that I wasn’t allowed to drink coffee on campus!
My freedom was already slipping through my fingers.
Along with that, every morning started with a mandatory devotional. I would mostly sleep through them because I wasn’t interested. I was just there to learn and then live my life the way I wanted to.
But after a while, I noticed the people around me who were taking Jesus Christ’s teachings seriously. In Ukraine, many people only went to church a few times a year, but here, everyone was always talking about Christ. They were kind, good, and positive about life.
I started to wonder what my life would be like if I believed in Him too. Sometimes I even caught myself thinking, “What would Jesus’s perspective be?”
I felt confused. I told one of my friends at the academy about how I was feeling torn. He invited me to try praying about my feelings.
On one foggy morning, I decided to find a quiet place to meditate outside. I don’t know what came over me, but instead of meditating, I gave God the benefit of the doubt. I said, “OK, let’s talk.”
And I said the longest prayer of my life.
I just wanted to know if God and Jesus Christ were real.
As I was praying, the sun pierced through the fog. I felt its warmth on my skin and warmth in my heart. I felt like someone’s hand was on my shoulder, telling me They were right there with me.
The message was clear: They were real. They were aware of me.
I also realized something else.
Looking at those who were living the gospel of Jesus Christ, I didn’t see anybody being forced to do things they didn’t want to do or feeling restricted by their faith. I saw them choosing to live like Jesus Christ because they wanted to.
In the Book of Mormon, the prophet Moroni extends his promise through an invitation, not a command: “If ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:4).
I realized I wanted to choose Him too.
From then on, I took learning about Jesus Christ seriously. I accepted missionary lessons. I studied the Book of Mormon. I prayed every day. I even got baptized! (My choice this time!) This was all so new to me, but I felt my heart changing.
I still have a lot to learn, and I am so imperfect, but I always say to myself, “Let’s just try to be like Christ today. Just keep trying.”
Elder Joaquin E. Costa of the Seventy beautifully taught: “At times, having faith in Jesus Christ may seem like something impossible, almost unattainable. We may think that coming unto Christ requires a strength, power, and perfection we don’t have, and we just can’t find the energy to do it all. But … faith in Jesus Christ is what gives us the energy to begin the journey.”
Jesus Christ can change us if we give Him the chance and keep trying. He doesn’t limit our freedom. Instead, He offers us even more through His Atonement: joy, healing, and hope.
We have the freedom to choose Him every day, and I’m grateful for the miracles my choice to follow Him brings into my life.
The author is from Kyiv, Ukraine.

Evan Stephens was born in Wales in 1854. By the time he was 12 years old, his family had moved to Willard, Utah, where he sang in the town choir. But when Evan learned that President Brigham Young was coming to hear the choir, he had a problem.
Evan looked down at the dusty road and dragged his feet as he walked home from choir practice. Everyone else in the Willard town choir had cheered at the invitation to sing for President Brigham Young. The men clapped each other on the back, while the women whispered excitedly from behind their books and fans. No one noticed the glum look on 12-year-old Evan’s face as he slumped down in his chair. The “Boy Alto,” as he was known, quietly slipped through the church doors and left practice by himself.
The problem wasn’t that Evan didn’t want to sing. He loved music. When his family settled in Willard, a town about 50 miles (80 km) north of Salt Lake City, he had been delighted to learn about the unusually good town choir. As the 10th child in the Stephens family, Evan had found little time between farm chores to learn much about music. In the Willard choir, he could finally learn more about it. He found himself moving in rhythm as he worked and dancing as he herded the cows. He felt music everywhere now.
No, the idea of singing for the prophet didn’t upset Evan. But choir members would need to dress in their best Sunday clothes for the performance, and Evan didn’t have any good clothes. His family didn’t have much money. He had never owned a nice coat or a pair of black Sunday shoes. He was ashamed to sing in front of the prophet while looking so shabby.
Evan looked down at his dusty feet. They were covered with dirt from the trail. He would have to scrub them hard before going to church Sunday morning. Otherwise, his feet would look black. Evan’s heart jumped at this thought. He could get black feet—really black feet—by using polish. Everyone would be looking at the faces of the singers, so no one would notice that Evan had black feet instead of black shoes.
On the day the choir was to sing to the prophet, Evan felt sweat on his forehead and the palms of his hands as he looked down at his black feet. He knew he must go—the choir needed him—but he wanted to hide so the prophet would not see him. With tears racing down his cheeks, he ran toward the bowery where the choir was going to sing.
At the bowery, Evan stopped. What if the prophet did see him? What would he think of a poor farm boy with painted black feet and no coat? Evan couldn’t let the prophet see him. Turning around, he bolted like a frightened colt. He ran right into the very man he had hoped not to see.
President Brigham Young grabbed the frightened boy by the shoulders. “Now, now, what’s this?” he asked. “What’s the matter? Why are you running away?”
Tears filled Evan’s eyes as he bowed his head and whispered, “I have no coat for the program and no shoes.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, he continued, “I painted my feet black with polish.”
The grip on Evan’s shoulders relaxed, and he felt the prophet pat him on the head. Looking up, he was surprised to see a kind look on President Young’s face and tears in his eyes too. “Never mind that,” he told Evan. “Don’t you hesitate a moment. Go right on in.”
Relief wrapped around Evan like a soft, warm blanket. He blinked away the tears and returned the prophet’s smile with one of his own. He hurried to take his place with the choir. Happy to be accepted by the prophet, Evan sang his part perfectly.
President Young gave Evan an encouraging word and courage to do his part. This kindness influenced Evan long after the choir performance. He continued to study music and taught himself new skills.
When Evan grew up, he became director of the Tabernacle Choir. He served in that position from 1889 to 1916. Evan also wrote many sacred hymns and patriotic songs. He remained humble and always remembered the lesson he had learned from the prophet. Evan treated people like he did his music—with love. And like President Young, he listened with his heart.
Evan Stephens later wrote a hymn about courage, including the words, “Courage, for the Lord is on our side” (“Let Us All Press On,” Hymns, no. 243).