Gospel Story Finder

While the formal classroom may be intimidating at times, some of the most effective teaching takes place other than in the chapel or the classroom. Well do I remember that during the spring season some years ago, members of my ward and an adjoining ward took all the Aaronic Priesthood, who eagerly looked forward to an annual outing commemorating the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood. On this particular occasion we journeyed by bus 90 miles north to the Clarkston, Utah, cemetery. There, in the quiet of that beautiful setting, we gathered the youth around the grave of Martin Harris, one of the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon. While we surrounded the beautiful granite shaft which marks his grave, Elder Glen L. Rudd, then the bishop of the other ward, presented the background of the life of Martin Harris and read from the Book of Mormon his testimony and that of Oliver Cowdery and David Whitmer. The young men listened with rapt attention, realizing they were standing at the grave site of one who had seen an angel and had actually beheld the plates with his own eyes. They reverently touched the granite marker designating the grave and pondered the words they had heard and the feelings they had felt.
Then we walked a short distance to a pioneer grave. The marker bore the name of John P. Malmberg and contained the verse:
A light from our household is gone.
A voice we loved is stilled.
A place is vacant in our hearts
That never can be filled.
We talked with the boys about sacrifice, about dedication to truth. Duty, honor, service, and love—all were taught by that tombstone. In memory’s eye I can see the boys reach for their handkerchiefs to wipe away a tear. Heard yet are the sniffles which testified that hearts were touched and commitments made. I believe each youth had determined to be a pioneer—one who goes before, showing others the way to follow.
We then retired as a group to a local park, where all enjoyed a picnic lunch. Before turning homeward, we stopped at the grounds of the beautiful Logan temple. It was a warm day. I invited the boys to stretch out on the spacious lawn and with me gaze at a sky of blue, marked by white, billowy clouds hurried along on their journey by a steady breeze. We admired the beauty of this magnificent pioneer temple. We talked of sacred ordinances and eternal covenants. Lessons were learned. Hearts were touched. Covenants and promises became much more than words. The desire to be worthy to enter temple doors lodged in those youthful hearts. Thoughts turned to the Master; His presence was close. His gentle invitation “Follow me” was somehow heard and felt.

It is instructive that the second Latter-day Saint connection with the Titanic did not have a happy mortal ending. Irene Corbett was 30 years old. She was a young wife and mother from Provo, Utah. She had significant talents as an artist and musician; she was also a teacher and a nurse. At the urging of medical professionals in Provo, she attended a six-month course of study on midwife skills in London. It was her great desire to make a difference in the world. She was careful, thoughtful, prayerful, and valiant. One of the reasons she chose the Titanic to return to the United States was because she thought the missionaries would be traveling with her and that this would provide additional safety. Irene was one of the few women who did not survive this terrible tragedy. Most of the women and children were placed in the lifeboats and were ultimately rescued. There were not enough lifeboats for everyone. But it is believed that she did not get in the lifeboats because, with her special training, she was attending to the needs of the numerous passengers who were injured from the iceberg collision.

The lost opportunity might relate to family, occupation, talents, experiences, or others. All of these were cut short in the case of Sister Corbett. There were songs she did not sing and potential she did not fulfill in this mortal life. But when we look through the wide and clear lens of the gospel instead of the limited lens of mere mortal existence, we know of the great eternal reward promised by a loving Father in His plan. As the Apostle Paul taught, “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.” A line from a beloved hymn provides comfort, solace, and the clear lens: “And Jesus listening can hear the songs I cannot sing.”

On November 20, 1999, another important event happened. The Attridges were the first family sealed together in the newly dedicated Halifax Nova Scotia Temple. “I felt very happy and warm inside after I was sealed to my parents,” Ali said. “Now I know I can be with my mom and dad forever.”
“Looking in the mirrors in the sealing room, we saw our family going on forever,” Mother added. “Since Ali is adopted, this was the most wonderful day in our lives because we will be a family forever.”

“When I came back from my mission, I wasn’t having much success in running. I quit the team in January. I thought it just wasn’t worth the time. But I couldn’t feel good about that decision because I had this nagging feeling that I hadn’t really reached my potential. I hadn’t really developed my talent to the fullest. Finally I realized that I couldn’t quit until I had given it my all.

“My philosophy of life is that you try to take advantage of all the opportunities that come, because if you don’t, they’re going to be gone. It’s very hard for me to sit back and watch things pass by. Every day that ticks off there are certain things that you have the potential to accomplish, and if you don’t that’s too bad.

“The thing in life that motivates me the most is the need to reach my full potential with the talents and capacities that God has given me. It was frustrating sometimes, but it was mostly a question of not being able to quit until I knew what my potential was.”

The decision to stick with running was soon vindicated, because 1976 was pure magic. In one of the great Cinderella stories in the annals of sports, Henry exploded from a 9:25 weakling to an 8:23.99 star, top American, and tenth-place finisher in the Olympics, with the second fastest time ever by an American, missing the record by seven-tenths of a second. He literally came from nowhere to stun the American sports scene.

His goal for 1976 had been to run an 8:55 and qualify for the NCAA meet. At the beginning of the year it seemed like an ambitious goal indeed, but as the year progressed it began looking more and more possible. In an almost magical progression, his times dropped every week. Improvements that should have taken months, came in days. He not only qualified for the NCAA meet, but astounded everyone there by finishing a strong second with a time of 8:27, which qualified him for the Olympic trials.

Never except in his wildest dreams had Henry even thought about going to the Olympics, but now it was a possibility. Still, he felt his chances were only about 50–50. He would be competing with real names in the sport. He proved himself again, however, by finishing second in the trials. He was on his way to Montreal. At the Olympics he again surprised everyone by reaching the finals, the only American to do so, and the second youngest finalist in that event in the history of the games. His eventual tenth-place finish was a triumph for a 22-year-old in a sport where runners reach their peak at around age 30. And this 22-year-old had been an “also ran” to “also rans” less than a year earlier!

On 25 December 2010, my family and I were baptized. Everything looked different in our view. I was 12 years old; I was not able to understand much about the Church. As the days passed, I was able to understand the gospel better. I slowly started to learn about the importance of attending the temple. In a family home evening, we invited the missionaries to join us and to teach us. They taught us about how the temples on the earth help members to worship our Heavenly Father, to make and keep covenants and to perform ordinances for our ancestors. These teachings humbled us to be grateful and thankful to God for blessing us with temples on earth. After learning much about the temple, I and my family had a strong desire to go to the temple but because of some challenges in our family it took several years to prepare for the temple. Finally, the day came for me and my family to go to the temple in Hong Kong. It was 1 October 2017 and we were well prepared with family history work and with enthusiasm and with great joy in our hearts we were all set to enter into the house of the Lord.
As we started our journey from India to Hong Kong, our excitement to attend the temple increased. Our flight landed in the Hong Kong International Airport. We were standing in the line for immigration. An immigration officer took us to a different room and asked us lot of questions. Along with my family, there were five others with us from my home branch. My brother and I tried our best to help him understand that we were going to leave Hong Kong after a week. As proof we showed our return tickets, but he was not convinced. The immigration officer made the decision to send us all back to our country. We were devastated. Our excitement and joy turned into sorrow. My mom cried a lot. With great pain, we all returned to our country. Our ordeal continued in India. The Indian immigration authorities also questioned us as why we were sent back. It was with great difficult we were allowed to go. It was not easy to go through this situation, but we stayed faithful hoping that Heavenly Father would show his mercy on us to get into His house and receive His blessings for us.
A couple of weeks later, our branch was visited by a beloved member of our stake presidency. He gave a talk in the sacrament meeting and invited everyone to remain faithful in their trials and to prepare for the temple. He asked all the members to pray for us to go to the temple again. His talk was comforting to our wounded hearts and gave us hope that one day we will be able to attend the temple.
One day I was reading a talk given president Henry B. Eyring on “Try, Try, Try”.1 I learnt from his talk that great things never come easily. When I was reading his talk, the Spirit of the Lord confirmed it to me that I should keep trying because attending the temple is one of the greatest blessings of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ in this dispensation.
My family and I never gave up our desire to go to the house of the Lord. With the help of our loving church leaders, the prayers of the members of our branch and many others who helped us, once again we got the opportunity to go to the temple. We were blessed to go to the Taipei, Taiwan Temple. This time, we did not have any problems in passing the immigration. In the Taiwan airport, we were expecting the officers to ask us questions. But miraculously, they didn’t even ask us a single question. They just let us go. It brought great joy to us.
On 1 February 2018 we entered the temple. We had great experiences in the temple, there are no words to describe those feelings. My family was extremely happy after attending the temple. Our family did sealings, baptism for our ancestors and other ordinances.
While I was in the temple in Taiwan, I was thinking about our temple trip to Hong Kong and the story of Jonah and the whale came to my mind and helped me understand that we were meant to be sealed as a family in Taiwan temple not in Hong Kong.
My dear brothers and sisters we may face lot of challenges on our progress towards eternal life but it is after the trial of our faith that we receive witness as it is mentioned in Book of Mormon in Ether 12:6: “For ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.” We might have lot of works to do but don’t postpone visiting the temple. As you make attending the temple a priority, you will receive many blessings which our Heavenly Father has stored for us. I have received so many blessings personally. I testify that when we have true desire to go to the temple nothing can stop us2. And I promise you that when you attend the temple, you will literally feel the love that our Heavenly Father and the Saviour have for us.

Theresia Mangels, an elderly widow, lived alone in an apartment in northern Germany. One evening she heard a knock at her door and opened it to find two young men standing there. Remembering that she still had a book their colleagues had left years before, she invited them in, then went to find the book. When she tried to return it, they grinned and refused to take it, telling her the book was actually from another church. They were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, they said, and asked if they could give her an important message. She was a bit lonely and, besides, they were such nice young men. She agreed to listen.
They taught her that evening about someone named the Prophet Joseph Smith, but their message confused her. Visions and gold plates and angels—it all seemed so strange. They asked if they could come back another time, and she almost said no. But she decided to give them one more chance.
When they returned, they said they were going to teach her about the purpose of life and God’s plan of salvation. That sounded interesting. And then they started talking about something she had never heard of before: a premortal existence where all of us lived with God. It was as if a light went on in her soul. This doctrine was true. She could feel it. And it explained so many things she had wondered about but her church had never been able to clarify. From then on, everything the missionaries taught made perfect sense, and when they invited her to be baptized, she accepted eagerly.

All was quiet in the Andrews household one November evening when the chemistry of calamity began to bubble.
It was innocent at first—just a minor commotion in the basement. Mom, who was writing a letter at a desk in the living room, put her pen down and anxiously looked toward the basement door. Lucy, my ninth-grade sister, pulled off her headphones. Tyler, my six-year-old brother, stopped playing with his toy cars and looked worried.
“Mom,” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm, “is Dad … is he … well, you know, is he doing what I think he is doing?”
“I think so, Matt.”
“You’ve got to make him stop!” Lucy hissed desperately. “Doesn’t he know how this bothers us? I don’t want to go through all this again.”
“We’ve got to support him. I know it’s hard on all of us, but at times like these, we need to remember that we’re a family and we stick together. Your father is a good man. He just has a quirk or two, like everyone else,” Mom said slowly.
Just then, Dad burst through the doorway from the basement, a triumphant grin curling across his face. Around his neck was a camera. In one hand, he carried a tripod, in the other, his gadget bag filled with photographic filters, lenses, and film.
“I found all the gear! How about this Saturday for the family Christmas card photo?” he boomed. “Trust me. This will be the best one yet. I can feel it. What do you think?”
None of us said a word. We knew from experience that another chapter in the Andrews Family Christmas Card Catastrophe was about to be written.
Why couldn’t we be like other families when it comes to Christmas cards? Why couldn’t we actually go to a store and buy a box of cards with a drawing of a snowy forest and a sleigh filled with happy people swooshing across the countryside toward grandmother’s house, and a nice, simple message such as “Merry Christmas” scrawled on the inside? Why did we all have to huddle together and watch Dad fumble with his tripod, set the timer on the camera, and scramble back to join us before the camera clicked?
“Well, I’m sure that one was terrific, but we’ll take a few more to make sure we get a really great one,” Dad always says after the camera fires. Then we repeat the whole process over and over.
One year we went through almost two boxes of film before Dad was satisfied. Thirty-four times we had to stand up straight, say “cheese,” or “pizza” and then smile. When we got the photos back, someone looked awful in 26 of them, five were out of focus, and in three others, Dad didn’t quite get into the picture in time and all you could see was his back. We went with one of the out-of-focus shots that year, which sort of symbolizes the whole family photo ritual.
We’ve threatened mutiny. “We don’t want to do this, Dad. We’re not going to this year,” we’d say.
“But our friends tell us how much they enjoy our Christmas cards,” Dad says defensively. “They’d miss our family photo if we didn’t send it.”
Can’t argue with that. We’re probably the best Christmas entertainment around. “Has the Andrews family Christmas card come yet?” people around the city probably ask each December. “We could use a laugh.”
Lucy slipped into my room. “Thinking about the Christmas photos?” she asked.
“Yeah. Our annual collision with disaster.”
“Remember the year Dad wanted our photo taken in the mountains? He thought a background of snow and pine trees would be perfect.”
I remembered. The day we headed to the mountains, a full-scale blizzard was blowing in. The temperature was about 12 degrees, and our car slid off the road on the way home. If you look closely at the photo from that year, you can see the blue tinge to our lips, as we shivered in front of the camera.
“The year we almost died for the Christmas photo,” Lucy recalled glumly.
“That wasn’t as bad as the year we wore Santa hats and pajamas,” I said.
“A horror show,” Lucy agreed.
Actually, it was our pressed pajamas and Santa hats. Mom decided to starch and iron all our pajamas and the effect was one of my older brother, Michael, Lucy, and me (Tyler wasn’t born yet) standing stiffly at attention in our cardboard nightwear.
“Cute, Matt. You looked pretty awesome in your fire truck jammies,” teased Nick Flander, who until that moment had been my best friend.
The list of disasters is long. One year we all looked fine, except for Lucy, who had her eyes closed and mouth wide open. Or the Christmas when we used a photo from our vacation at the beach, all of us in our swimming suits.
“I thought it would be different. Kind of cute,” Dad explained.
“Beach shots don’t cut it in December,” groaned Michael that year. At least this year he’s on a mission in Great Britain and mercifully out of reach of even the longest of my Dad’s lenses.
“Is there any way out?” Lucy asked sadly.
“I don’t think so. Pray for a miracle,” I answered. “It’s our only hope.”
It was Tyler who boosted my faith in divine intervention a couple of nights later. I was upstairs, deep into a college hoops game, when he came in.
“Can we talk, Matt?”
“Always. Trouble with homework? Depressed about the ozone layer? Need some advice about girls?”
“No, I was thinking about Christmas cards.”
That got my attention. “What about them?”
Tyler sighed. “Michael.”
The light bulb that occasionally doubles as my brain flickered to life. “Yeah. Michael. He won’t be in the picture this year. Doesn’t seem right, does it, bud?”
“Nope.”
I was sensing a good angle, one that would end our hopeless holiday tradition. “I’ll talk with Dad, as soon as I catch him in a good mood, like right after he eats dessert.”
Tyler looked a little happier. And I was feeling pretty good too. A foolish tradition of my father’s was about to come to a screeching halt. Now all I had to do was convince Dad that without Michael in the picture, we weren’t quite a family.
We have a spare bedroom in our house that through the years has evolved into the music room, the library, the den, and the sewing room. When Dad is doing some serious vegging out, he heads up there, which is what he did an hour after dinner the following night. The timing felt right. I gave Tyler a thumbs up, then trudged up the stairs. Dad was sitting in an old chair, listening to ancient music from the ’70s.
“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” he greeted me, sounding fairly relaxed for a parent.
“Hi, Dad.” My strategy was simple: link this all up to Tyler. That way if Dad got ticked, I just tell him it’s all his last-born child’s idea, and I skate home free, since parents hardly ever get upset with the baby of the family. “Dad, can we talk about Tyler for a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“He’s worried about the Christmas card. He doesn’t think we should have a family picture this year because Michael is in London.” Then, feeling a surge of nobility, I lowered my voice and quietly said, “I kind of agree with him, Dad.”
Dad sat up in his chair. “You kids don’t really like the idea of a family photo, do you?”
“I think we’d like to try something else, something more contemporary. Like what other families do.”
He looked serious. Very serious. “Could be that I’ve had my blinders on,” he said slowly. “I’m not the best photographer in the world. I know that. I always thought the cards were kind of cute. Maybe it wasn’t the picture itself, just that we always were together in the photo. I suppose things change.”
This was too easy. “Change is good, Dad,” I reminded him, going for the jugular. “I think it says so in the Old Testament. Or Brigham Young said something like that.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his chin. “Still …”
The word still made me nervous. If there is one word that throws fear into the lives of teenagers everywhere, it is still when a parent is on the verge of making a wise and favorable decision. In this case, it signaled that Dad had not been totally swayed by my logic and eloquence. The sweet feeling of victory was slipping through my grasp.
“Still,” he repeated, and I felt doom encircling me, “let’s try one more year, at least. Michael may need it. Next year, we’ll buy boxed cards if you kids don’t want the family photo. Can you live with that, Matt?”
Partial victory, at least. One more year, then the family Christmas photo would be history.
“Okay, Dad. One more year.”
“We’ll take care of it on Saturday then.”
“But not in the mountains.”
“No, not in the mountains. I’ve got somewhere special planned.”
I didn’t even ask where. I wanted to hurry out of the room and give the news to Tyler and Lucy, before he could change his mind.
In our front yard is an old oak tree, and since we’d had a mild autumn, some of the leaves were still hanging from it. When I finally got up on Saturday and made my way downstairs, I was startled to see the tripod set up underneath the oak’s long, graceful branches. Dad’s special place was right at home. An hour later, we stood under the tree while he fiddled with his camera and made all the final adjustments.
“I hope nobody sees us out here,” Lucy whispered.
“Better than being in a blizzard,” I replied.
“Okay, everyone, straighten up. Everything is set. Here I come!” Dad said exuberantly. “Now one, two, three, everyone say, CHEESE!”
What can I say? The photo was great. It was perfect. Against all odds, defying all Andrews family tradition, Dad managed to get us in focus with our eyes open, and all of us looking natural and happy. Set against the oak tree, with our red and green sweaters and Tyler’s stocking cap, we managed to look right in step with the season.
“Guess it was bound to happen some year,” Dad mumbled, looking over the photos in an unconvincing attempt to sound humble.
“Miracles still do happen,” Mom chimed in.
“Can we send this to Michael? I think he’ll like it even if he isn’t in it,” Tyler said.
“Michael will get the very first one,” Mom promised.
We didn’t have long to wait before hearing Michael’s opinion about the Christmas card. Ten days before Christmas, a letter arrived. Mom tore it open as soon as she came in from the mailbox.
Dear Mom, Dad, Matt, Lucy, and Tyler,
I can’t tell you how neat it was to see the Christmas card photo. It looked great, even if I wasn’t part of it. Maybe I’m the reason they never seemed to turn out very well!
We’d had a rough day. It was dark, windy, and cold, and we didn’t have much luck with the work. We had so many doors slammed in our faces that my companion and I joked about needing plastic surgery to straighten out our noses. Anyway, we picked up our mail at the post after lunch, and I jammed your letter into my overcoat pocket.
It was on the bus that I opened the letter. When I saw you standing in front of the tree in our yard, I started to giggle. A woman sitting across the aisle said something about how I must be reading a nice letter. I showed her the card, and she was impressed by the photo. One thing led to another, and we’re going by her home to drop off a Book of Mormon tomorrow. Who knows if anything ever comes of it, but it wouldn’t have happened if a certain photo of a good-looking family hadn’t appeared in the mail.
Mom set down Michael’s letter. “Maybe we should try the photo again next year.”
Nobody disagreed. “But no train jammies,” I said. “I draw the line there.”
“No pajamas, Matt,” Dad nodded. “Same deal though. If the photo isn’t acceptable to everyone, we won’t use it. We’ll work hard to make it a decent picture.”
That evening, I walked into the spare room. Dad was on the floor, leafing through the family Christmas photo album. He flipped to the first page. “Look at this, Matt. See something?”
I squinted at the picture, faded after more than 20 years. “You and Mom. In front of your old car.”
“What else?”
“Well, Mom had long hair, and you had more hair …”
“Anything else?”
I studied the photo. Two people. My parents, soon after they were married. The first Andrews family Christmas card. No children back then. A long way from our family as it was today.
Or was it?
Whether it was two Andrews, six Andrews, or just five Andrews with one on a mission, it was still our family. The Christmas photo was about tradition, togetherness, the season of the year, and the way we celebrate it, and not so much the photo itself. This was a history of our family, a year at a time, right at our fingertips. An occasional brush with frostbite and teasing from our friends seemed a small price to pay for the treasure at hand. We would look through these photos someday and all laugh or cry, watching our family change from year to year. Someone would notice Michael was missing from this year’s photo and certainly say, “Oh, that was the year he was on his mission. Whatever happened to the woman he met on the bus?” What great Christmas memories.
“See anything else?” my father gently asked.
“What I see is a family, no matter how many people are there. I see a lot of what Christmas is about.”
And as I said so, for the first time, I got the distinct feeling that I was not looking at just a photo but seeing the whole picture.

Recently I interviewed an exceptionally stalwart priesthood holder for a temple recommend. I asked him if he sustained his bishop, his stake president, and the president of the Church. Of course his reply to each question was sincere, humble, and strongly affirmative. Then I asked him if he sustained his wife in her calling. He paused to think about it for a minute before answering that he did.
Then he added, “President, this has been very hard for me. In the past I was the one who held important, executive positions in the Church, but now our roles are reversed. My wife is an auxiliary president; the phone calls are all for her, she goes to the leadership meetings, she is in the forefront of action. I’m the one now who stays home to take care of the children often while she’s doing Church work. I’m doing my best to support her, but this is a new experience.”
We counseled together about the eternal importance of husbands and wives working together as a team, sustaining and supporting each other in all aspects of their lives, and then concluded the interview.

Years ago, I found a summer job on an oyster boat in Long Island Sound. Four of us lived together in an area not much larger than the cab of a big semitrailer truck. At first, I was considered a spy for the owner, then a boy who didn’t have courage to “live like a man.” The others really gave me a bad time. Finally, when they understood that I would not do wrong things to prove I was a man, they left me alone, and we became friends. And then privately, one by one, they asked for help.
You know what is right and wrong. Be the leader in doing right. At first you may not be understood. You may not have the friends you want right away, but in time, they will respect you, then admire you. Many will come privately to receive strength from your spiritual flame. You can do it. I know that you can do it.
You have observed how some of your friends want to appear to their parents and Church leaders as though they are doing the right things, but secretly they do otherwise. They may have moments of excitement that they consider pleasure, but they can never be at peace or truly happy. When you keep the commandments of the Lord, you can be happy and at peace, and the Holy Ghost is your companion.
When you are alone with your friends, talk about doing good and being good. You will be able to be inspired by the Lord to know what to do. The feelings you will have, the promptings that will come to you, will powerfully help you to want to do good. Those who do wrong and scheme to get away with it will never know such feelings. If you don’t feel comfortable with the thought of discussing good things with your friends, they are not your friends. Change them.
Some of you, as you have read this, may have been prompted by the Spirit about something the Lord wants you to do. Those promptings are a personal message from the Lord to you. Remember that message. Follow it now for your happiness.

I grew up on a farm in Washington State, where my parents raised kids and cattle. I was the youngest in our large family, and at 14 I was busy trying to balance chores at home with my budding social schedule.
Each day after school it was my responsibility to feed and count all 60 head of cattle to make sure that each was safe. To a 14-year-old girl, this was a tedious chore, so I avoided counting them. In the winter it wasn’t as dangerous because none of the cattle were calving, but when the spring hit, it was critical that the pregnant heifers that had never given birth were each watched carefully. But I was too busy worrying about my hair and braces to be bothered about a few cows.
I clearly remember the day I was pulled out of school and rushed home to help. One of our young heifers, my very own actually, had been in labor for three days, hidden in the woods, suffering with no food, no water, and no help. The unborn calf had perished days before, and the cow had been unable to birth it. So, with the help of a vet, my father and I had to remove it from her.
When I pulled up in the truck and saw my father standing there, I was sure he would be angry with me. He had told me thousands of times to count the cattle, always asking if they were all there and all safe. But I was too busy to listen. I was too busy with things I thought were more important, like basketball practice. Or I would wait too long and feed them in the dark, making it impossible to count the herd. At the time, my own things really did seem more important. I didn’t understand; I didn’t have the big picture yet.
When I looked at that poor animal suffering from starvation, crippled and ruined, never again to bear a calf, I knew my father had been right. I had chosen not to listen to his simple instructions, and the consequences affected far more than my own life. I spent the next two months nursing the animal back to health, working her through the paralysis, and doing my best to repair the damage I had caused.
My father? He loved me. He put his arms around me and knew that I would never do it again. He knew that I had learned the lesson the hard way, but it was learned. If only I had listened. It was my own laziness, my own selfish insistence on my personal comfort that had kept me from following my dad’s simple instructions that would have saved a life.

Sister Evanka Pashinova, who had been an opera singer before she joined the Church, orchestrated the production. She translated unfamiliar songs into Bulgarian and organized the choir. Despite the distances members had to travel to rehearse (as long as two hours’ travel each way), choir members were enthusiastic and committed. They never missed a rehearsal. The musical portion of the program began to come together.
Several individuals blended their talents to create the costumes and scenery. Elena Shtilianova, a fine seamstress, made or found the costumes for all three scenes. An investigator who is an actress with the National Theater arranged for the Father Christmas costume. Another sister who is an artist painted exquisite backdrops. In a country where rolls of paper are often not available, she somehow found the materials needed to create the scenery. The investigator who had provided the Father Christmas costume also borrowed spotlights from the National Theater—as well as the union technicians who came with them.
As the complexity of the production and the number of participants and guests outgrew the meager facilities of the mission office, a banquet room at the Moscow Hotel in Sofia was reserved with funds from the mission office. Although it had only a small stage, an upright piano, and very limited space, it was the best that could be found. The choir members laughed about “standing room only” and offered to stand offstage when they weren’t performing so everyone could squeeze in.
The work took on a rhythm of its own as the weeks of rehearsal went on. The members’ excitement crescendoed into confidence, and everyone began to look forward to the chance to sing of the birth of the Savior and of his place in their hearts.
But as the excitement grew, the group’s harmony was invaded by discord. Newspapers and television spoke against the Church. Missionaries were physically abused. Rocks were thrown through the windows of the mission home and the mission office. One night the whole front of the mission office was painted with obscenities.
As the anti-Church sentiment grew, the manager of the Moscow Hotel began to worry about the possible consequences of allowing the Church to hold a Christmas program in her hotel. Less than 36 hours before the program was to begin, she notified the mission office that the members would not be able to use their reserved room after all.
Some of the members were devastated by the news, believing that the Christmas program would have to be canceled. President Warner was more trusting.
“Heavenly Father knows where we are and how much we need to have this program,” he said. “Let’s leave it in the Lord’s hands.”
The Lord heard their prayers. When the assistants to the mission president, Elder Trent Murray and Elder Hannon Ford, returned to the Moscow Hotel to get the mission’s money back, the manager explained why she was reluctant to allow them to use the reserved room on the main floor and led them to a room on the second floor.
“If you can promise that your people will come in the back door instead of the front door, go up the back stairs, and not use the lobby, you can use this other room,” she said, opening the door to a much larger ballroom. It was two and a half times larger than their reserved room, and it had a wonderful grand piano. It even had a Christmas tree and other holiday decorations.
On a cold Saturday afternoon in Sofia, missionaries met the members and investigators arriving for the program and directed them to the back door, where they entered the hotel inconspicuously. More than 400 guests crowded into the ballroom. Even the dour faces of the spotlight technicians, who were unhappy to be working on a holiday, could not spoil their festive spirit.
The 150 choir members sang beautifully, and the audience joined in for a sing-along. By the time a young couple placed their baby in the manger for the final scene, the room was filled with joy and music. Even the spotlight technicians were singing and clapping along with the others.
The Spirit was so strong that no one wanted to leave. But like every performance, the Christmas program had to conclude. The same child’s a capella solo that had opened the program—her “Silent Night”—ended it. As the audience and the participants returned home, echoes of their experience—their “Joy to the World”—reverberated in their hearts and warmed the chill in the Bulgarian air.

My siblings and I had long been on a waiting list for public schools. When our opportunity to enroll finally came, my mother told me good things about school. She said if I took education seriously, I would be someone someday. I will never forget her words: “I am sorry that I am not able to provide a good life for you. I am sorry that you had to learn the hard way the importance of work so early in your life, but now you will have the opportunity to get an education. Whatever happens, never give up school because it is the only thing that will take you away from this life.”
Once I was in school, we had to be inventive to come up with school supplies. I would find blank pieces of paper in garbage cans and bring them home. My mother sewed them together to make a notebook. She would buy a pencil to divide in three so my two sisters and I could each take a section to write with at school. Our other two siblings were not yet old enough to come to school with us.
Because my mother had suffered so much her entire life, she didn’t believe there could be a God. Throughout my childhood, neither did I. But as I got a little older, I started asking questions about God. I asked myself why my family never had a chance to have a good life and why I never had toys, enough food, or new clothes. Every time I asked these questions, I felt somehow in my heart that I wasn’t alone. This feeling comforted me for many years.
When I was about 13 years old, Latter-day Saint missionaries came to our home. They answered all of my questions and taught me about Jesus Christ. They told me there was a church where I could learn more about the gospel in special classes for people my age. They taught me how to pray. They told me about the Book of Mormon. When I was baptized, none of my family came.
I felt lonely, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I was introduced to a new life—a life of hope, happiness, faith, and love. My peers, I knew, were seeking solace in drugs and immorality. I found mine in a loving Heavenly Father and the gospel of His Son. After my baptism I knew that the Lord had been aware of me my entire life.
I learned a lot about the gospel. I met people who shared my beliefs. Some of the members got to know a little bit about my life when they visited me at home. They generously helped me buy clothes and shoes for church and notebooks for school. I babysat regularly for Church members and made more money than I ever had before. Because I was so young, it might have been easy for me to stray from the gospel. But with the support of Church members, I remained firm in my newfound faith.
The gospel truly changed my life. After I was baptized, I felt I had more energy to learn in school. I learned a lot and became a tutor. If I did not know a subject, I would study until I knew it so well I could teach it. I used the money to help at home.
I received my patriarchal blessing and was counseled to serve a mission because the Lord reserved a special blessing in my mission that would change my life forever. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew I would understand in time if I was obedient.
I served in the Brazil Curitiba Mission from 2000 to 2002. Through my association with a particular companion, I was able to go to the United States to study. I knew this would indeed change my life forever. I knew my Heavenly Father was aware of me and had a specific plan for me. This opportunity to further my education was an answer to my prayers.
I knew that it would be challenging to learn a second language, but I also knew it was possible if I worked hard enough. I studied at the Brigham Young University English Language Center and spent up to 10 hours a day in the library. One of my teachers suggested we pray for the gift of tongues, so every night I prayed and asked Heavenly Father for this gift. He certainly helped me.
After I completed my studies at the English Language Center, I was accepted at several universities. I decided to attend Brigham Young University–Idaho and apply for the nursing program. I heard that it was very difficult to get into the program, especially for international students. So I studied my hardest. My friends teased me, saying I should move into the library because I spent so much time there. Even when it closed, I went home and kept studying.
When times were difficult, I remembered the words of President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008): “You need all the education you can get. Sacrifice a car; sacrifice anything that is needed to be sacrificed to qualify yourselves to do the work of the world.”1 I knew those were the words of a prophet of God, and I took them seriously.
When I was accepted to the nursing program, my heart filled with gratitude and happiness. I knew it would be hard and I would have to continue to make sacrifices, but I knew the Lord would be with me.
While in school, I met my husband, and we were married in 2007. My mother also joined the Church that year. She told me that she had never known why I was so happy, even with all the terrible things that had happened to us. But once she joined the Church, she understood. The gospel of Jesus Christ has blessed my family, and I’m happy to see my mother blessed after all the sacrifices she has made. I will always be grateful for her.
By the beginning of 2010, I was preparing for graduation—and was pregnant with our first child. Two months before I was to graduate from the nursing program, I had complications with my pregnancy, and our baby was born via cesarean section. My teachers told me I should take time off from school and graduate later. But I was so close—only two months away!
So my husband and I carefully organized our time so we could properly balance our priorities and I could complete my education. I scheduled my study time so I could give my husband and our son the attention they needed. Sometimes my husband’s parents stayed with our son while I was in class. Two great classmates helped me review class materials. I felt that the Lord had sent all of these people to support me through this difficult time.
After graduation I passed the state certification exam and started working as a nurse to help support our family while my husband completes his education. Even though I am not planning on working once my husband starts his career, if a tragedy or economic hardship requires me to work in the future, my education helps me feel prepared to do so.
Mom was right: education does have the capacity to change lives. It has changed mine, and it will change the lives of my children. I hope they will realize that I am successful because I followed the Lord’s plan for me. He wanted me to get an education, and He helped me every step of the way. I hope my children learn how to work like I did and that they come to value education as much as I do.

But getting the right perspective is not as simple as ordering pizza. If we persist in behaviors and choices that limit our view to portions of our own possibilities, then we will never see our divine potential as God intended for each of us. Instead, we must be willing to travel the journey that will take us to greater heights and afford a ,wider perspective that is deeper and more beautiful. I understood this much more clearly on a special trip I made with my brother to the Philippines. The trip was a surprise to pick up our youngest sister who served in the Baccolod Philippines mission. The mission president was a gracious host who not only introduced us to the delicacies of Filipino dining, but allowed us opportunities to see the many wonders of the country. One such sight was the Mambukal Resort in Negros Occidental.

Mambukal Resort is considered first class with its natural feeding place for thousands of fruit bats, natural hot springs and abundant waterfalls. President walked us towards the 5-layered waterfall and instructed us to go and see from the top. Obediently we started up the trail with full intent to return quickly so that the President could return to his work. However, by the third waterfall, my breathing began to get heavy, my legs were sore, and the areas of extra pounds started to feel itchy.

"You go ahead," I said to my brother. "When you get to the next one, call down and tell me if it's very far."

My brother refused and insisted on waiting for me to make the hike together. Not wanting to disappoint him, I took a deep breath and started up again to the next water fall. With each step up the windy trail I could feel my legs tremble and my muscles starting to pull tightly. I took deep breaths to try to calm the pain, and focused on the weeds that crossed over the trail path.

Upon reaching the fourth water fall, a sudden feeling of relief and joy overcame me. For just a moment, I forgot my itchy joints, my shaking legs, and the tightness in my muscles. The water was amazing, and the view was grand. Was there only one more? "No, you go ahead," I said again to my brother.

"Please just go so we can get back to President. Don't wait for me. I am too slow and out of shape." My brother would not go.

"Please," I pleaded. "Just go. And tell me what it's like when you get back."

But my brother just stood there and shook his head. Thinking of the President waiting at the bottom of the falls, I started again reluctantly up the last trail to the fifth water fall. Each sight truly had been beautiful and refreshing ”but with the physical discomforts that increased with each step, I was not as desirous about seeing the last water fall as I had been in the beginning.

The last trail was longer than the first, and again every step was such a struggle I could not afford to enjoy the natural beauty surrounding us. I don't know how long we were gone, but when we finally reached the top, the greatest feeling overcame us both. Not only were we enjoying the beauty of God's nature in this vineyard, but we had shared the experience together. For a moment, we stood in silence admiring the beauty that surrounded us.

I saw many parallels with the types of "hikers" who attempt the trek to higher grounds to see a grander view of the land, but often come up short for one reason or another. Some of us start the trek for a worthwhile goal, and then decide once we have reached our "comfort zone" that we don't need or want to extend ourselves anymore. We agree that the top of the waterfall must be beautiful, but because we are tired, out of shape, unprepared or weak, we convince ourselves that we do not want to go the extra mile and ask others to go on our behalf so we don't feel too guilty about coming short on the challenge.

If you can relate to my style of hiking at Mambukal Resort, I invite you to consider changing your perspective so you can be an optimistic hiker that makes more of his/her travels than I did. Had my brother not insisted on me continuing with him up the trail, there are several views and sights I would have missed due to my own personal limitations and challenges. I want to note that having the right attitude is part of the journey ”having the right support is the other. And so it is useful to note that in order to help another person achieve and move forward, it is important to stand on higher ground and to be firm footed in the places we stand.

A strange noise woke the raccoons. Mother Raccoon peered out from their hollow in a tall elm tree. Then three smaller heads appeared beside hers. Below their tree a truck stopped, and two men got out and slammed the doors. The raccoons, frightened, ducked out of sight. But curiosity got the best of Lotor, one of the small raccoons, and he soon peeped out again.
Below him one man pointed at the tree and said, “This one will make good firewood.”
The two men brought an ax and a chain saw from the truck, and one of them began chopping a notch in the tree’s base.
For the raccoons to stay until the tree fell meant possible capture or even death. Mother Raccoon quietly urged her three youngsters out of their hollow and onto a tree branch. The limb of the tree overreached the branches of another tree, and Lotor scuttled over onto it.
The commotion of the rest of Lotor’s family on the branch caused the axman to quit chopping and to look up. “Coons!” he yelled.
The other man dashed to the truck and grabbed a rifle. There was a loud craaack, and Mother Raccoon fell to the ground. Lotor’s brothers scurried back to what they supposed was the safety of their home in the hollow of the tree.
Lotor scampered down the other tree and fled deeper into the woods. When he felt that he was out of danger, Lotor quit running and crawled under a bush.
Raccoons usually sleep during the day and forage at night, and Lotor was very tired. But he knew that he must find a new home. It was midafternoon before he found a high, hidden hollow in a tree much like his old one. The weary youngster clawed soft, rotted wood from the walls to make a “mattress” and lay down. After several plaintive whimpers for his lost family, he slept.
Lotor awoke shortly before sundown and descended the tree. He was hungry. Reaching a creek, he swam upstream. As he passed beneath a sweet gum tree, he heard a buzzing sound overhead. Remembering that his mother had once scooped honeycomb from a bee tree before the bees drove her away, up he went.
On the underside of a limb, halfway out, hung a nest. But there was no smell of honey. Lotor crawled out on the limb, then reached down and tapped the nest. The buzzing grew louder as several hornets flew out.
Lotor’s fur protected him against the hornet stings. However, his nose, eyes, and ears were exposed. When a hornet stung Lotor’s ear, he retreated rapidly, swatting as he went.
The little raccoon eventually found himself at the edge of the woods. By then a full moon lighted the sky. Beyond the woods was a pasture, and Lotor could see something tall growing in a field. He was about to go back into the woods when the breeze shifted. The smells of chickens, dogs, and man were all in the air. Another of the scents Lotor recognized was one he had smelled once on his mother’s fur when she had returned home with a couple of ears of corn in her mouth.
All was quiet, and Lotor was famished. He slipped under the pasture fence, ran through the pasture to the cornfield, hid among the cornstalks, and began to feast. Lotor was almost full when a new scent reached him. A fox was upwind!
Suddenly hens began squawking and dogs began barking. Lotor headed for the fencerow.
The hounds were baying now as they ran. And the fleeing fox was leading them toward the right, away from Lotor’s side of the cornfield. Nevertheless, the raccoon thought it wise to return to the forest. But before he got to the fence, the chase changed direction, and the baying hounds were headed toward the woods too.
Lotor and the fox reached the edge of the pasture at about the same time. The fox ran directly at Lotor, then swerved away and sped between him and the fence. Circling behind Lotor, it flashed toward the creek. Touching the bank, the speeding animal circled the hornets’ tree, came back to its trail where it had swerved to avoid Lotor, whirled, and retraced its flying steps back to the bank. Leaping far out into the creek, it headed upstream with its nose barely above water back toward the dogs!
Lotor understood. The dogs would find a trail that circled to nowhere, the creek would carry away the fox’s scent, and he, Lotor, was in the middle of that clever circle! He whirled toward the creek, but he was too late! The hounds saw Lotor and forgot about the fox. Lotor ran up the tree with the hornets’ nest.
The dogs leaped and snarled. Lotor sat quaking on the limb with the hornets’ nest. The only limb reaching close to another tree was the one on which he crouched. As he tried to ease past the hornets’ nest, he caused the limb to shake. A few hornets flew out of the nest, and one of them stung Lotor on his ear again! Angrily he slapped at the nest. It broke loose and fell between the two dogs, bursting open. The hornets swarmed over the hounds, and their baying became shrieks of agony as they fled.
Lotor descended, trotted to the creek, and swam across. On the other bank water flew in all directions as he shook himself dry. Then he ambled toward his new home. He was no longer a raccoon kit. In one adventure-packed day, he had grown up.

Josh fidgeted on the bench. Sacrament meeting had already lasted an hour, and he was tired of sitting. He was tired of being quiet too. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor, and that made his legs hurt.
When he tried to ask his mother what the speaker’s talk was about, she said, “Shh.”
Josh looked around him at his friends. Tammy was coloring a picture of Captain Moroni. Jody was making a Noah’s Ark out of a piece of paper. Josh wanted to do that, too, but his father told him that it made too much noise. “Try thinking about Jesus,” his father whispered to him. “Remember, Jesus wants us to be reverent in church.”
“I’m trying,” Josh whispered back.
Josh couldn’t wait until Primary. Sister Cheshire always had such good stories in his CTR-A class that he could sit for almost twenty minutes without wiggling.
As soon as Sunday School singing practice was over, he jumped up from the bench and started to run to the Primary room. He stopped when he saw the Primary president. She smiled at him. Josh walked the rest of the way to class, but he walked very fast.
Today Sister Cheshire told the class that she needed their help. “I want each of you to name a way you can show Jesus that you love Him.”
“Going to Primary,” Jody volunteered.
“Picking up my papers after sacrament meeting,” Tammy said.
Sister Cheshire smiled. “Those are both good ways. What about you, Josh? Can you think of a way of showing your love for Jesus?”
Josh thought hard. “Being reverent,” he said.
“That’s a very important way,” his teacher agreed. “How can we be reverent?”
“That’s easy,” Tammy said. “We just have to be quiet.”
“What do you think, Josh?” Sister Cheshire asked.
Josh looked at his teacher. “We can be quiet anytime,” he said, frowning thoughtfully.
“That’s right,” his teacher said. “Being reverent means more than just being quiet.”
“My father said I should try thinking about Jesus during sacrament meeting. I tried, but I kept thinking about other things.”
Sister Cheshire held up a picture of Jesus in a white robe. His face was kind and gentle. “When we partake of the sacrament, we promise that we will always remember Jesus. Now, what does the bread represent?”
“His body,” Jody said before anyone else could answer.
“The water’s supposed to stand for His blood,” Tammy added.
Sister Cheshire smiled. “You’re both right. The water is a symbol of Christ’s blood, just as the bread is a symbol of His body.” She looked at Josh. “What do you think about when you see a picture of Jesus?”
“I think about how much He must have loved us,” Josh said slowly.
He looked at Sister Cheshire. She was crying.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said, feeling like he might start crying too.
“It’s all right, Josh. I’m crying because you’re right—Jesus does love us very much—so much that He was willing to die for us.” She handed a small copy of the picture to each child. “When you come to church next week, I want each of you to bring this picture with you. It will help you remember Jesus when the sacrament is being passed.”
Josh stared at his picture. Jesus looked as if He was smiling right at him. Slipping it inside his Bible, he said, “Thank you, Sister Cheshire.”
“Thank you, Josh, for helping us better understand how we can be reverent. Will you say our closing prayer now, please?”
Josh started the prayer the way he always did. Then, after thanking Heavenly Father for Primary and his teacher and the beautiful day, he remembered the picture and said, “Heavenly Father, please help us to remember Jesus and show Him that we love Him by being reverent.”
He felt good a few minutes later as he walked down the hall, telling his mother and father about the lesson and showing them his picture of the Savior.

Here I was, 18 years old, approaching graduation from Troy High School, just another boy from a southern California city who loved to have fun without damaging my physical body or dusting up my mind and soul. Little did I know I was about to make one of the hardest decisions I would ever face.
I was a high school senior. The time was approaching when I would be the right age to serve a full-time mission, and the prophet had said all worthy young men should serve. I knew that. But for some reason I wondered about when I should go.
It wasn’t much later that I was sitting in an interview.
“What are your feelings about accepting a mission call?” the bishop said.
I looked down at the patterned floor and replied, “I think I’d like to go.”
His mouth formed a smile as he opened his calendar. “Well, let’s see. You turn 19 in September, so if we filled out your papers three months before, then it …”
Before he could finish, I jumped in.
“Bishop, I don’t know when I want to leave. Yes, I turn 19 in September. But I guess I need some time to think it over.” I felt myself get tense as I sank deeper into my chair. I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I just needed time to ponder and pray.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to support you,” he concluded, as he walked me to the door. “I’m behind you 100 percent of the way,” he added.
Wandering back to the car, I began to realize how important my serving a mission was to my Heavenly Father. I also thought how important my example could be for my family. I was the second oldest of six children, and I felt I had to set an example for the four younger ones. But most of all, I thought about how accepting the call was the right thing to do, that I should listen and obey.
As I drove home, however, I felt a strong impression that when I should go was very important.
The next few weeks were incredibly spiritual for me as I pondered and prayed about my decision of when I’d leave. Praying for guidance from my Heavenly Father was not easy. I had never been one to rely so greatly on prayer. But I knew that through prayer, if I had faith, he would answer me.
After weeks of patience and prayer, I could feel the influence of my Heavenly Father’s spirit wrap around me. I began to feel that in January of 1996 I would be available to be called into the mission field.
I had never felt such a feeling of comfort and joy as I did that day. There was no doubt in my mind that when January rolled around I would be ready and willing to go. And I knew that within the next seven months I would have to work hard and prepare myself to serve an uplifting, spiritual mission.
Four months before I was to leave, my older brother, David, was in an accident that left him in a coma. A few days later he died.
The spirit that filled our house that day was something I had never felt before. It was as if our home was floating on heaven. Although I missed my brother terribly, I knew that was why I had wondered about when I should serve. His death brought my family closer together, and I will cherish for all eternity those few months I had with my family before I left for the mission field.
Now I’m teaching people about the true gospel of Jesus Christ, and I know that serving a mission is one of the most important things I could ever experience.
And to know that my Heavenly Father actually cared enough to answer my prayer about when I should leave made me feel like someone special. It gave me something to hold on to and helped my faith in him increase. My Heavenly Father knew exactly what was going on. I could see his footsteps beside me every step of the way.
Editor’s Note: Elder Goodman served a mission in the Colorado Denver North Mission. He was released in January of this year.

In September 2004 I traveled to the Netherlands with two of my grandchildren, Jim and Arianne, to commemorate the 60th anniversary of Dutch liberation during World War II. We had been invited by the Dutch Historical Group to participate in the commemoration because my brother Evan, a co-pilot of a B-24 bomber, had died while helping with the liberation in 1944.
While there we traveled to Hommersum, just over the border into Germany, to attend a ceremony dedicating a plaque where my brother’s plane had crashed. Father Gerard Thuring, one of the event organizers, and I spoke during the ceremony, after which 17-year-old Arianne sang the U.S. national anthem, “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and Jim, 15, helped raise the U.S. flag.
Afterward I told Father Thuring that we would like to attend the special liberation Mass the following day at his church in Oosterhaus. He welcomed our interest and invited us to attend. I then summoned the courage to suggest that Arianne, with whom I had consulted earlier, would be willing to sing at the meeting.
Surprised, he asked, “What will she sing?”
“ ‘I Am a Child of God,’ ” I told him.
This good and kind man thought for a moment and then said, “We are all children of God. Let’s do it.”
When we arrived for the liberation Mass early the next morning, the church was full. Partway through the program, Father Thuring invited Arianne to come up and sing. After escorting her to the front, he said, “We will now hear a song from a Mormon girl from Utah.”
Without the benefit of music or accompaniment, Arianne began. As her voice echoed from the church’s high ceilings, tears began to flow as parishioners comprehended the hymn’s comforting message.
At the close of the meeting, many in the congregation expressed appreciation and love to Arianne for singing the hymn. The experience was a powerful reminder that all of us—regardless of race, religion, or language—are children of God.

Last June, a terrible accident occurred in the country of Lesotho in southern Africa. A small bus carrying 20 young women of the Maputsoe Branch of the Church and seven of their leaders was headed to the capital city, Maseru, for a gathering of young women from their district. As they traveled the two-lane highway in the morning hours, a car coming in the opposite direction, attempting to pass another vehicle, came into the lane occupied by the bus. There was no space or time to avoid a head-on collision, and within seconds the vehicles hit, rolled off the road, and burst into flames.
In all, 15 people died in the accident, including six young women, two Young Women leaders, and the branch president and his wife. Survivors, family members, and friends have expressed a range of emotions, including moments of anger, depression, and even guilt. Despite these feelings and unanswered questions, they have comforted one another and turned to God through sacred music, the scriptures, and prayer, where they have found solace. Seventeen-year-old survivor Setso’ana Selebeli testified, “Jesus Christ loves us and is with us, even though our hearts hurt.”
A young woman and a leader who were hospitalized for burn treatments studied the Book of Mormon together. One said, “Lately we’ve been reading in Moroni, and Moroni says exactly what I’ve been feeling. … When he speaks, it’s like he’s saying, ‘You have to learn these words because they are written for you to help you pass through this.’”
At a joint funeral service for those who perished, Area Seventy Elder Siyabonga Mkhize counseled, “We should all turn to the Lord at this time and ask Him to comfort our hearts and … to soothe the pain that we feel.” The Young Women president from the neighboring Leribe Branch, Mampho Makura, urged: “Turn to the Lord, and find the strength to accept His will. Jesus Christ is ‘the author and finisher of our faith’ [Hebrews 12:2]. Don’t look away, but look to Him.”
Of course, the counsel “look to God and live” not only has meaning for us in eternity but also makes all the difference in the character and quality of our mortal lives. Remember the words of young Sister Selebeli in Lesotho already mentioned—“Jesus Christ loves us and is with us, even though our hearts hurt.”
Looking to God means that He is not just one of our priorities; it means, rather, that He is our one highest priority. I call to mind again that awful crash in Lesotho last June. From her hospital bed, one of the Young Women leaders who survived, who did not believe in God before joining the Church, said that her purpose is now to discover why her life was spared. “Constantly serving God is how I will come to an answer, if I come to an answer,” she stated. “I used to think that I love God, but now I really, really, really, really, really love Him. Now He is the [number-one] priority in my life.”

Moisés swung open the gate and walked into the car parts shop. School was over, and it was time to help Papá at work. Moisés grabbed a broom and started to sweep. He liked to help Papá. He even got to earn some money.
Soon it was time for Moisés to leave. He said goodbye to Papá and started to walk home. He felt sad as he walked. It always felt strange to go home without Papá. Moisés’s parents were separated. He and his seven siblings lived with Mamá. Papá lived somewhere else. Mamá worked three jobs because they didn’t have much money. It was a hard time for all of them.
One day there was a knock at the door. It was two missionaries. They shared a message about Jesus Christ. They also taught about a prophet named Joseph Smith. Moisés felt something special inside as he listened.
The missionaries kept coming back to teach Moisés, Mamá, and some of his siblings. Moisés and his family started going to church. They read the Book of Mormon. They stopped drinking coffee. They even chose to be baptized!
Moisés learned that Heavenly Father loved him. And even though things were still hard for his family, he felt more comfort and peace.

But Bishop Carvalho did not come from a close family, and joining the Church helped him learn how to be a better parent and spouse. “I didn’t understand my responsibilities as a father. Sometimes, when I came home from work, all I could think of was how tired I was,” he explains. “The gospel was like a light that showed me the way. I began to understand my purpose as a man and as a father.”
Now, Bishop Carvalho says, he could not handle his many work and Church responsibilities without the support of his wife and two children. He says it is a great blessing to have been called as a sealer in the Swiss Temple, because temple work is so important to him. He functions in the calling when he travels to Switzerland with Portuguese temple excursion groups.