Gospel Story Finder

A fifteen-year-old Korean boy, a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, used his allowance each week to buy newspapers. Then he and his friends sold them on street corners in Seoul, giving the money to a classmate who couldn’t remain in school without this financial help. He wanted to know how it felt to be a Good Samaritan rather than just having an intellectual understanding of the lesson he had studied in the scriptures.

We won the game, four to three, and I kicked in one of the goals myself! After the game Gracie walked over to me. “Tell me some more about your church, Ryan,” she said.

I told her about the Articles of Faith, which is what Sister Adams says that we should do if someone wants to know what the Church teaches. But Gracie didn’t seem to understand them at all, so I started telling her about Primary.

“Can any kid go to Primary, or just kids in your church?” she asked.

“Anybody who wants to,” I answered. She just stood there, waiting, so I took a deep breath and asked, “Would you like to go to Primary with me tomorrow?”

She smiled a big smile. “I’ll ask my dad.”

Oh, brother! Another girl! I thought. I was glad that Gracie wanted to go to church, but why hadn’t Kevin reacted like this? Gracie’s father said that it was OK for her to go with me, so I told him what time Primary started and when I’d pick her up. She drove off, waving at me from the window of her dad’s van.

That night Mom and Dad came into my room for my prayers. When I was done, Mom kissed my cheek and said, “We’re really proud of our missionary.”

“Don’t be,” I said.

“Why?” Dad asked.

“Because I wasn’t really a missionary to Gracie. She practically had to beg me to invite her to Primary. I didn’t want another girl in my class—I wanted Kevin to come. Why didn’t he want to go to Primary and learn more about the gospel?”

“Even Last-days Kids have their free agency,” Mom said. “Don’t give up on Kevin yet. And don’t stop being his friend just because he isn’t interested in going to church with you.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I said.

“Good.” Dad smiled. “I’m proud of you.” And he kissed me good night.

Our lesson in Primary the next day was about the Word of Wisdom. Gracie sat and listened hard to everything Sister Adams said. Lisa and Tina-Marie were quiet too. It was a good lesson. After Primary Mom asked Gracie if she wanted to go home.

“Are you going home?” she asked.

“No. We’re going to stay for sacrament meeting,” Mom answered. “But if you’d like to go home now, I’ll take you.”

“Am I allowed to go to sacrament meeting?” Gracie asked.

“Of course,” Mom answered.

“Then I’d like to stay, please,” Gracie said.

Dad squeezed my arm, his smile almost too big for his face.

After church we dropped Gracie off at her house. “See you at soccer practice,” she said as she hopped out of the car.

“Will you need a ride to church next Sunday?” Dad asked.

“No. I don’t think so.” The whole mood in the car went down like a flat tire on a bicycle. Then Gracie leaned in through my open window. “Last night Mom and Dad and I had a big talk. Mom’s been wanting to find a church to go to ever since we moved here. And Dad said that he’s always been impressed with Ryan. So they said that if I liked your church, next Sunday they’d go with me.”

It was July 1915, and the world was at war. But the struggles on the battlefield could not have been more emotion-shearing than the confrontation storming in our English home.
It had been a tempestuous session; my father had hurled malicious arguments at me since 9:00 in the evening, and it was now past midnight. I had dreaded the interview, but father was a mariner, and his ship was leaving soon. In those days no one knew exactly when a boat would return. Not only were schedules less exact and more subject to nature’s unpredictable furies, but now the waters swarmed with submarines. Torpedoes hunted merchants, soldiers, and passengers with equal vindictiveness.
All the missionaries in Europe were being called home on a ship departing on November 26. All emigrants had to leave that day, too, or wait until World War I ended. I wanted to be on that boat. I wanted to travel on that boat in the company and protection of the priesthood.
Knowing that father had been bitter against the Church for the last 15 years had given me a good idea that I would need divine help in obtaining his permission to separate myself from my family. Not sure when he would land in an English port again, I had known it would be necessary to speak to him before morning. Now for hours he had been bellowing reasons why he deemed my action irrational. But I had prayed long and hard for the Lord’s aid in softening my earthly father’s heart.
A tassel of his gray hair toppled over the furrows of his forehead. He had stopped his pacing before the fireplace, only momentarily, to announce his decision: “All right, you may go to America. But remember, I have seen much of that country, and I do not like it. I shall never live there. Your mother will stay with me, and you will never see either of us again.”
What I had thought would be a moment of relief filled my soul with agony. Those words, “You will never see your mother again,” had done what three hours of argumentation had failed to do. Every device had been used to make me change my mind, and now the final dagger stabbed deep, twisting in my heart. Leaving my mother would stretch my cord of faith into a fragile thread.
The bond was solid between Mother and me. Our mutual love of the gospel of Jesus Christ had drawn us close. But Father was the head of his home, and logic argued with him that his prediction would probably come true.
Then, somehow, words said years before fought their way into my mind, surmounting despair and reinforcing my faith. With a surge of courage I squared my shoulders and looked deep into my father’s eyes. “It may not be so, Father,” I said. “It was a few years ago, but the mission president told Mother that if she were faithful, she would gather to Zion. I believe that promise. All the obstacles will be removed.”
My father’s face registered astonishment, disbelief, and anger.
His hands clenched and unclenched. The outburst left me limp and numb.
I looked across the room at Mother. She was living every emotional vibration but knew better than to interfere. It was enough. I had my father’s word, and he would not break it.
I decided I had better go to bed and let things calm down until Dad left in the morning. There would be plenty of time to get ready for my journey after he had gone to sea.
Two weeks later my mother and I sat in a small compartment of a train headed to the docks. My married sister had come to bid me farewell. Looking at her for what I was sure would be the last time, I realized the love she had for me. Tears tumbled down her cheeks, though she had kept up her English reserve until then. We were not a demonstrative family, but now I thought, If I had known you loved me so much, it would have been even harder to leave.
My sister had arranged for the Baptist minister to talk to me in her home, and he warned of the sinking of the Lusitania in May of that year, which rushed 1,189 people into eternity. But I was filled with the spirit of gathering prevalent among the Saints in that day, and I had faith in the priesthood. My commitment had been made.
Mother and I reached Liverpool in the total darkness of a blackout. A guide escorted us through a maze of unlighted streets. Finally we could make out what seemed to be an immense wall in front of us. We were told it was the ship. Boarding procedure followed blackout restrictions, too, and we entered the ship in darkness.
The guide wanted to rush me in and Mother away. I turned to Mom, wrapping her in a tight hug with my arms, and said, “Don’t grieve. The Lord said it will be a land of Zion to us if we pay our tithing. And you know I pay my tithing.”
“Yes, my dear, I am sure of that,” she said. “God bless you.” She kissed me and disappeared into the shadows of the crowd.
February’s white snow piled powderpuffs on the fence posts and frosted the windows of homes in the Utah village in which I now resided. It had been seven months since I left Liverpool. Perhaps Lucifer had heard my parting words about tithing and decided to mock me. The lack of prospects for work dulled the beauty of the winter day. I was homesick, disappointed, and lonely.
The postman crunched up the sidewalk and slid an envelope through the slot in the door. It was a letter from my mother. She, too, was struggling. My brother stared death in the face every day in the trenches of France; Father’s location on the ocean was unknown, except perhaps to a periscope prowling icy waters. And she wasn’t worrying alone, she said. Neighbors worried, too. Everything was secret and suspense clouded the atmosphere.
My patriarchal blessing appointment was scheduled that afternoon, and I should have been busy preparing myself for it. But even through my fasting and prayer, my concerns about my family floated to the surface of my mind. I wished my family could join me to hear the patriarch’s words! I dropped the letter from my hands as I sobbed, releasing tears I had stored inside since the day I had last seen England.
I dropped to my knees by my bed and uttered the most sincere, heartrending prayer of my 19-year life. I told Heavenly Father I was sorry to be so weak, but that he knew how homesick I was, how disappointed to be out of work, how concerned about my family.
I said that if he could see fit to give me two promises in my patriarchal blessing, then I could be brave enough to endure anything the future held. I pleaded that my family and friends might someday come to this country and that I would someday be married in the temple.
I left the house and walked a block to the patriarch’s home. I spoke to no one and saw no one. But my Father knew of my prayer. That good patriarch came in from working in his fields and invited me to dinner. The food fortified me, and I was able to restrain my tears. We went to a private place, with his granddaughter along to act as scribe.
He described glorious promises, many of them. Then I heard, as it were, my own words, the ones I had spoken to my Father about one hour before: “Your loved ones from whom you have been parted—the Lord will bless and protect them, and many of them will follow you to the fold of the Good Shepherd and bask in the life-giving light of the gospel of their Redeemer. With them you will sing the songs of Zion and have much joy in their society. You shall have the privilege of going to the house of the Lord to receive a worthy helpmate and companion to be with you for time and all eternity.”
The patriarch continued outlining the blessings the Lord planned for me if I lived worthily. While he did, quiet tears trickled down my face. Heaven was in my heart.
When the patriarch had finished, I thanked him, tried to dry my face, and rushed home. I walked into my room, picked up my pen and wrote, “It’s all right now, Mother; Heavenly Father will protect George and Father. And you will come to Zion. Our Heavenly Father has said it. Be brave until we meet again. Much love, Mary.”
Many prayers in my life have been answered just as rapidly as the one concerning my patriarchal blessing, but time has not dimmed that miracle to me. I felt power, exultation, and gratitude; it seemed that my Father in heaven had come down and answered my requests in my own words through the patriarch. The promises all came true after many trials. Through the difficult times, the blessing fortified me. We are finer for the things we learn through the ups and downs of life, but the joy always outweighs the pain. Through my patriarchal blessing, I learned the happiness of compliance with the divine instruction given in Proverbs 3:5–6 [Prov. 3:5–6]:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

The room was small. Mirrored darkly in the panes of a tall china closet, it seemed even smaller. The deep afternoon hinted of spice, cedar, and old wool. The creak of a rocking chair and the ticking of a clock seemed quieter than mere silence.
Serious young men in the uniforms of two wars, flanked by snapshots of lacy babies and an embroidered rose, looked down out of their gilded frames onto a couch overflowing with pillows. The room was full of time-worn furniture and the dainty odds and ends a woman can accumulate in a lifetime.
Two windows spread sunlight through white curtains covered with moving leaf-shadows, highlighting here a ceramic ballerina on her crocheted doily, there a white pin jar, elsewhere a flight of plaster angels flapping up one wall toward a high ceiling.
In the best light a white-haired lady sat working, her knitting on her lap. She hummed softly to herself and glanced from time to time at the hands of the clock. When the door chimes sounded, she soon had the door open. “Come in,” she said warmly to the three smiling girls who stood outside, “I’ve been expecting you.”
She was expecting them because weeks earlier Laurel president Donna Muir had suggested that something should be done for the elderly. The young people of the Culver City and La Cienega wards, who meet together for activity night, agreed, and so they sought and received inspiration. The result was an innovative service project that would allow some of the widows and widowers in the area to give just as much as they received. Small groups of young people would visit selected oldsters and chat with them about their lives. The interviews would be recorded and preserved as a contribution to oral history. They decided that each group would take a small present to those they visited to show their love and appreciation.
And in other houses, other cassettes turned, other pens scratched, and warm, old voices escorted other young people into the heart of other times and other lives. It was a guided tour of history—not embalmed textbook history, but history still alive and breathing. Horizons of time, space, and personality were broadened, and everyone, young and old, knew that they were co-citizens of forever.
Several weeks after the last stop buttons had been pushed and the last goodbyes said, the young people hosted their elderly friends at a dinner where each of them was presented with a typed transcript of what he had said. It had nothing to do with a service project anymore. It was a get-together between friends.
The young men and women involved in the visits speak glowingly of the experience. Brother George Mitchell, an immigrant from Bulgaria, was visited by Alfred Griffith, Bruce Wright, Sandra Tong, and Myra-Lynn Jensen, who took an apple pie as a gift. Sandra later commented, “He talked for two hours, and when we left, he had just made it up to 1945. He has lived an interesting life. I never realized what a struggle immigrants to our country experience.” Myra-Lynn added, “The thing I remember is that he said that the apartment he lives in at the low-rent housing project is like a palace compared to the tar-paper shack he lived in when he first came to this country.”
Donna Muir, Mary Synold, and Diane Muir visited Sister Ruth Yancy, an elderly widow in poor health who devotes all the time she can to visiting disabled veterans at a veterans hospital. The young ladies, who took along a plate of cookies, were amazed at the amount of information Sister Yancy had given them. Diane said, “Older people seem so quiet, but they really have a story to tell. I didn’t know Sister Yancy at all, but I appreciate her as a person now. I can see the good she has done throughout her life.”
Sister Hazel Gotts, a widow who is a recent convert, was visited by Gerilynn Price and Mark Packard, the priests quorum group leader. They took her a cake. Mark reports, “I enjoyed talking with a person who has been around so long and seen so much. I think it’s a good way for the youth and older people to get to know and understand each other better. I had a very nice feeling when I left, knowing I had made someone happy, and I know she was very happy to know that someone cares about her. She enjoyed telling us about herself. I think it would be nice if the youth could establish a close relationship with the elderly people in the ward.”
The bishops of both wards suggested many people who would enjoy a visit, and five were chosen for the initial project. Youth leaders contacted each of these people to see if they would be willing to be visited. One elderly lady burst into tears and said, “Visit? With me? I’ve been so lonely.” Another replied, “The young people are so beautiful! I’d just love for them to come.” All five were eager to participate.
So the visits were scheduled, the preparations made.
Inside the house of the white curtains, the three young ladies complimented their hostess on her hand-painted china, broke the ice with a little small talk, and again explained their mission. Soon the tape recorder was set up, one young lady had her pen poised above a notebook ready to take notes, and the good sister started talking about her girlhood and her life. On the rare occasions when she ran dry momentarily, the girls were ready with well-conceived questions to start the flow again.
As they listened and the cassette turned, a wonderful thing happened. Years blurred and ran together, and the Laurels were no longer in the little house of sunlight and painted china. They were in Heber City, Utah, around the turn of the century, seeing life through the eyes of a young Mormon girl. They knew the bitterness of the winters, the headiness of mountain springs, the crushes, hopes, and secrets of being young. They met and loved all the old forgotten people, old and forgotten no more, who had filled a girl’s childhood. They visited a sawmill on the Utah-Wyoming border where she had spent some summers and smelled the sweetness of clean-sawed pine. They lived with her her first time away from home.
“It’s an awful thing to be homesick,” she said, closing her eyes and remembering, but with a smile. And then, in the present again for a moment, she leaned forward and asked, with a twinkle in her eyes, “Have you girls ever been homesick?”
Suddenly there was no generation gap—no time barrier between Utah then and California now—as the girls realized more fully than ever that people don’t stop being people just because they grow old. They forgot all about tape recorders and oral history for a while and talked friend to friend about homesickness, and family, and love, and all the other things that never stop mattering, and for a moment they glimpsed a more eternal perspective of existence and saw time as the sham it is.
Randy Tong, Gayle Allen, and Susan Langford visited Sister LaVern Brown who had suffered several severe falls and couldn’t get out much, and they presented her with a potted plant. The youth unanimously reported that it had been a delightful experience. Sister Brown later commented, “Oh, those young people were just so nice, but so quiet. I had to do all the talking.”
Sister Louella Norberg was visited by Kathy Peterson, Joele Chafant, Deanna Peterson, and Kiku Okauchi. Kathy said of the visit, “Joele, Deanna, Kiku, and I met outside her apartment and were standing there wondering how we should approach her when she stuck her head out and called, ‘Yoo-hoo, girls! Here I am!’ and invited us in to see her. It was fascinating. She told us things that happened over the years, and I really enjoyed it. I know she liked it a lot too because she kissed us all before we left.”
A kiss on the cheek in California—it’s a little thing, but it’s the sort of little thing that’s teaching youth all over the Church that service is truly its own reward.

My mother, Madeline Bitner, was another great influence in my life. In her youth she was a fine athlete and a champion sprinter. She was always kind and loving, but her pace was exhausting. Often she would say, “Hurry up.” And when she did, we picked up the pace. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I had quick acceleration when I played football.
My mother had great expectations for her children and expected the best from them. I can still remember her saying, “Don’t be a scrub. You must do better.” Scrub was her word for someone who was lazy and not living up to his potential.
My mother passed away when she was 87 years old, and I think about her often and miss her more than I can say.

When my bishop asked if I would accept a calling as Young Women president, I wanted to say no. I felt inadequate to preside over the young women. But three months after I had accepted, I was heartbroken to learn that our ward boundaries were changing and I would be released.
I prayed to know why the Lord would allow me to come to love the young women only to say goodbye so soon. My answer came unexpectedly during a ward council meeting.
Council members had been asked to share stories at stake conference about helping members of our ward, but I was concerned that some people might feel like ward projects. After I had voiced my concern, however, the Spirit told me that Heavenly Father is concerned about all His children.
Some years ago my husband and I were the focus of a ward council, and we knew it. I returned to activation after our first child was born, but my husband did not. For years, stake presidencies, bishoprics, and home teachers tried to help us.
Then we moved into a new ward. A patient and loving bishop and a home teacher became my husband’s friends. This time my husband was receptive to the Spirit. He was prompted to read the Book of Mormon, and he started going to church. Slowly he regained a testimony. I will never forget the beautiful day our family was sealed in the temple.
It wasn’t until I was called as Young Women president and had the opportunity to serve on a ward council that my eyes were opened to what it means to be the focus of a ward council. I learned that ward councils focus on certain people not because they care about numbers but because they, and the Lord, care about individuals. When we serve in our callings, the Lord fills us with His love for those we serve.
Thinking back to when my family was the focus of ward councils, I realized that we were not just the ward’s concern—we were the Lord’s concern. They cared about us because He cares about us.
The truth is, we are all the Lord’s concern. Out of love, He has designed a plan to strengthen us and, if necessary, activate us—a plan often carried out by people like the bishop and home teacher who helped my husband.

Twenty-three-year-old Tom Monson, relatively new bishop of the Sixth-Seventh Ward in the Temple View Stake, Salt Lake City, was unusually restless as the stake priesthood leadership meeting progressed. He had the distinct impression that he should leave the meeting immediately and drive to the Veterans’ Hospital high up on the avenues of the city. Before leaving home that night he had received a telephone call informing him that an older member of his ward was ill and had been admitted to the hospital for care. Could the bishop, the caller wondered, find a moment to go by the hospital sometime and give a blessing? The busy young leader explained that he was just on his way to a stake meeting but that he certainly would be pleased to go by the hospital as soon as the meeting was concluded.
Now the prompting was stronger than ever: “Leave the meeting and proceed to the hospital at once.” But the stake president himself was speaking at the pulpit! It would be most discourteous to stand in the middle of the presiding officer’s message, make one’s way over an entire row of brethren, and then exit the building altogether. Painfully he waited out the final moments of the stake president’s message, then ran for the door even before the closing prayer had been said.
Running the full length of the corridor on the fourth floor of the hospital, the young bishop saw some extra activity outside the designated room. A nurse stopped him and said, “Are you Bishop Monson?”
“Yes,” was the anxious reply.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The patient was calling your name just before he died.”
Fighting back the tears, Thomas S. Monson turned and walked back into the night. He vowed then and there that he would never again fail to act upon a prompting from the Lord. He would acknowledge the impressions of the Spirit when they came, and he would follow wherever they led him, ever to be “on the Lord’s errand.”

From the day I went to the temple and received my endowment two years after my baptism, I have loved the sacredness of the temple and the work there. When my father died four years later, I was devastated. He was my hero. Thanks to the gospel of Jesus Christ, I know that he still lives.
When I entered the celestial room after doing my father’s vicarious work, I felt his embrace. At that moment, I knew that my father had accepted the gospel and the love the Lord has for His children.

At a stake conference before Caleb’s passing, I spoke with a General Authority about our experience with Caleb. After he acknowledged the exhausting effort needed to care for Caleb, I thought he would encourage me to faithfully persevere in the service and sacrifice I was providing. Instead, his next four words transformed my relationship with Caleb forever.
He simply said, “You are being exalted.”
The Lord taught a similar principle when Joseph Smith, while incarcerated in Liberty Jail, prayed for relief from the great suffering he and the Saints were experiencing. The Lord responded with a comforting promise:
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment;
“And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high” (Doctrine and Covenants 121:7–8).
Similarly, Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles testified: “Adversity is not evidence of the Lord’s disfavor, nor a withdrawal of His blessings. Opposition is part of God’s plan to refine us and prepare us for an eternal, celestial destiny (see 2 Nephi 2:11).”
All this time I thought we were taking care of Caleb. In reality, God, through Caleb, had been taking care of us. The Lord was performing a miracle on me, on my wife and children, and on all those who met Caleb.
Caleb could have quickly returned to heaven, but instead he brought heaven to us for seven remarkable years. In our toughest times, God never abandoned us. With faith, courage, and hope, we learned that His blessings often shine brightest during our trials. Caleb’s constant wink was a tender reminder of God’s profound love for us all.
The author lives in Utah.
Like the Moody family, how can you “purposely choose hope and trust in the Lord” in your own trials?

He knew they would be looking for him, so David scrunched down in his seat on the bench behind Brother Johnson. He figured the deacons quorum adviser wouldn’t be able to find him way back there, even though the chapel wasn’t very crowded and it would be difficult to remain unseen.
He knew if they found him he would be asked to pass the sacrament, and he didn’t want to. He was a priest now and tall enough to play on the high school basketball team. It was embarrassing to stand at the front of the chapel with the little 12-year-old deacons, who all seemed half his size.
His father had been watching him from the stand, and David felt his disapproval. Much to David’s surprise, however, he wasn’t asked to assist the deacons. Before anyone could ask him, Brother Hensley volunteered.
Brother Hensley was a new member of the Church, not much older than David, and recently ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. Everyone had been excited to learn that he was taking the missionary discussions. He had been very popular in high school and was now attending college.
He stood tall alongside the deacons. He walked proudly and passed the sacred emblems with dignity.
Several members were talking to Brother Hensley in the foyer after the meeting. David couldn’t help overhearing their conversation, especially when he moved closer.
“Thanks for helping us out today,” someone was saying. “I hope it didn’t bother you to work with the young deacons.”
“Not at all,” David was surprised to hear him say. “I consider it a great honor. You know who the first person to ever pass the sacrament was, don’t you?” Then answering his own question, he continued. “It was Jesus Christ—when He passed the sacrament of the Last Supper to His Apostles. It is my understanding that our apostles and prophets today administer and pass the sacrament to one another just as we did today. I guess if they consider passing the sacrament a privilege, well, so do I.”
David moved on quietly as he reflected upon what he had just heard. He decided he would sit in plain sight the following Sunday. He would sit where they could find him.

Around then, the COVID-19 pandemic forced New Zealand into a lockdown, and all Church gatherings were suspended. “No one knew how long we would be required to shelter in place,” says Adele, “but the temple groundbreaking ceremony had to go on.” She needed to come up with an alternative for a live choir.
Adele researched the possibility of a virtual choir. “I put the idea to some professionals and was told that this kind of project would cost thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours.” It was disappointing news, which normally would have discouraged Adele, but this time was different. This time, “it wasn’t just anyone we were preparing for,” she said, “It was the Lord.” She persevered and reached out to a young filmmaker and musician in her stake: Brother Anthony Butters.
“What I loved about Anthony is that it didn’t occur to him that [something] couldn’t or shouldn’t be done.” Even though Anthony himself was not sure how to make a virtual choir happen, the challenge “piqued his interest,” Adele says. “He was willing to give it a go.”
They immediately got to work.
They knew that choir practices would be impossible during the lockdown, so they recorded the instrumentals and each vocal part of Adele’s musical arrangement for singers to learn at home. Then they put out a general call seeking members for their virtual choir.
Next, they had to somehow make sure—without the luxury of rehearsals—that all the singers learned their parts correctly. They also had to figure out how to record each singer’s vocal contribution, how to edit dozens of vocal recordings together so they sounded like one choir, and how to produce a performance video that could be broadcast on the day of the temple groundbreaking ceremony.
For Adele and Anthony, it was very much a matter of being “led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which [they] should do”1. But they pored over Google and YouTube tutorials, and courageously worked through all the obstacles that arose along the way.
The experience was difficult for the choir, too. To leave enough time for editing, the singers had only three weeks to learn the music, and then each had to make both an audio and a video recording. The challenge proved too much for some. Singing on your own is quite different from singing in a choir, and after hearing themselves recorded alone, Adele says, “I had a few messages asking if they could humbly bow out because they felt their voices weren’t good enough.” Other singers were okay with the vocal recording, but not so happy to be filmed, and several more were not comfortable at all using the technology required.
Those who persevered managed to send their audio recordings to Adele, whose next job was to begin editing them together. This required a quiet space in her house, so she had to convert a walk-in closet into a makeshift recording studio. Then, her computer and software broke down. In the middle of a nationwide lockdown, Adele couldn’t just go out and purchase new equipment.
“I became overwhelmed with the feeling that I wouldn’t be able to get my part of the job done on time,” Adele says. “I asked my husband for a priesthood blessing.”
A couple of hours later, she received an unexpected phone call from a friend in Hawaii. Adele told her friend about the difficulties she was having with the virtual choir, and he said, “I can help you.”
“I went silent, hoping I heard properly,” Adele says, “because I thought for sure he was too busy to do what would be a very tedious and time-consuming job. But he actually got excited about the challenge.”
This friend—Milton Kaka—called back the next day to announce that his boss at the Polynesian Cultural Centre, which was also in lockdown, was allowing him two weeks to work on this special project with Adele. Filled with gratitude, Adele sent a thank you message to Milton’s boss, who replied that this was the Polynesian Cultural Centre’s contribution “for our M?ori cuzzies.”
Milton joined forces with Adele and Anthony, and the audio and video recordings were finally stitched together—in enough time, even, to fix one final glitch: a singer’s footage that was missing.
Once that was sorted, the virtual choir performance video was ready to release for the temple groundbreaking celebration.

“Come on, Jennie. You’re an old slowpoke,” Tobie called good-naturedly to his little sister who ran to meet him every day after school. She could hardly wait to go to school with him and whenever Tobie declared that it wouldn’t be any time at all until she would be old enough, her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
Most afternoons were so quiet that Jennie and Tobie could hear birds singing or wild geese honking overhead. But today there came a new and different sound. Tobie looked in the direction of the strange, rumbling noise and saw a group of men coming toward them, raising a cloud of dust as they traveled.
Quickly Tobie pulled his sister back into the bushes and warned her not to make a sound. A crooked line of tired soldiers soon came into view, shuffling by slowly like the ragtag end of a beaten army. Several mules were pulling old, creaky wagons filled with injured men who moaned hoarsely every time the wheels jounced over stones in the road. As the strangers passed, Tobie noticed ragged and torn uniforms, bandage-wrapped heads, crutches made of broken tree limbs, and sallow, staring faces, some not much older than his own. The men who could walk were silent as they trudged along, their eyes fixed on the dusty road before them.
When the last marcher disappeared around the bend, Tobie grabbed Jennie’s hand and they ran to their farmhouse among the trees. Mother was coming from the barnyard with a basket of eggs she had just gathered. “What’s wrong children?” she asked.
They told her about the men, and when Father came home from the fields later for their evening meal he listened carefully to their news. The previous day, a neighbor had told him that British troops had taken over the nearby city of Philadelphia after a victorious battle near the Birmingham meetinghouse several days before.
When Tobie described their woebegone appearance, Father knew the bedraggled men belonged to General Washington’s defeated army. Apparently the surviving soldiers were looking for a place to rest and care for their wounded companions.
“I’m sure we have nothing to worry about,” Father said. However, when bedtime came the doors were bolted securely and his rifle was placed within easy reach.
The next day was Saturday and Tobie got up early to help with the chores. Jennie stayed so close to her brother that he called her his “little shadow.” It was nearly noon when they saw a man approaching the garden where they were picking tomatoes. The boy pushed his sister behind him and grabbed a hoe that was lying on the ground. Trying to sound brave, he asked gruffly what the man wanted.
The stranger looked sadly at the two children and, probably thinking of his family so far from Pennsylvania, sat down wearily on an old tree stump. “Don’t be frightened,” he said, “I just need a drink of water and a place to rest for a while.”
Tobie put down the hoe and hurried to bring some water from a bucket near the pump. Looking more closely at the man’s ragged clothing, he could tell that the tall, thin figure was a soldier in the Continental army.
Jennie ran to the kitchen for her mother. When they returned, the soldier tried to get up but the effort was too much. “Ma’am, I sure hope I didn’t scare the young’uns,” he said, motioning to Tobie and Jennie.
Mother looked at the man’s tired, bearded face, and tears came to her eyes. “We’re glad you’re here,” she said. “We want to help you.” And within minutes she was busily cooking food for the hungry stranger.
As they watched him eagerly eat every crumb of food from the plate, he told them about his children in Virginia. When he finished eating, the soldier talked of the men who had passed by the farm the day before. “There will be thousands like them,” he said, “coming to camp in the hills of Valley Forge. They have very little food and many are sick or wounded. A few stronger ones like myself have come searching for help from the surrounding farms. Others are cutting logs to build huts for shelter. There is no way of knowing how long we’ll have to stay, perhaps all winter.”
Later when Father came home and heard about the suffering of the men in the army, he and the soldier rode toward the place where General Washington’s troops were struggling to build a camp, while Mother began searching for pieces of cloth that could be used for bandages for the wounded men. Tobie and Jennie laid clean straw on the barn floor and placed buckets of cool water inside the door.
As dusk crept over the rolling Chester County hills, Father returned with some of the wounded men. Before long they were lying on the comfortable straw, eating hot soup and having their dirty bandages replaced with clean strips of cloth. As the tired and homesick soldiers thought of their own children so far away, they smiled at Jennie and Tobie.
By nightfall all were cared for, quiet fell over the barn, and the weary family returned to the house. They were preparing for bed when suddenly they heard the sound of horses’ hooves followed by a knock. Cautiously, Father opened the door.
A man stood in the doorway—a quite different-looking soldier than those in the barn. “May I come in?” he asked quietly.
There was something about this man who walked so very straight and tall that thrilled Tobie. A long black cloak almost covered a threadbare officer’s uniform. An aide, holding the bridle of a beautiful white horse, stood outside while the stranger visited in the kitchen.
“I understand that some of my men are sleeping in your barn,” he began. “Did you give them permission to stay there?”
After he was told of the day’s events the tall soldier was quiet for several moments. Then he said, “For my men and myself, I am grateful to all of you. Thank God there are so many good people in this great land of ours.” And before anyone could answer he bowed to Mother, shook Father’s hand and left.
It wasn’t until the next morning that the men in the barn learned of their commander’s visit the night before. They were grateful that in spite of his many concerns during this trying period he came himself to see after their well-being. But no one could have guessed then that the night visitor, Gen. George Washington, would soon become the first president of the United States.

The ballerina glides across the stage—spiraling, spinning, then springing into the air so easily it’s as if she caught gravity napping. She is in every movement a fluid expression of freedom.
Like many little girls, when Maria Victoria Rojas Rivera of Chile—Mavi to her friends—was four years old, she decided she wanted to become a ballerina. And like all of those other little girls, she quickly discovered that the grace and freedom she saw on the stage came at a pretty steep price. The effort and discipline required to become a professional ballerina are too much for many young dreamers.
“When you’re little, you don’t understand the sacrifice it takes,” Mavi says. “When I started studying at age 10, our teachers told us that half of our lives would be spent dancing. We’d have to give up a lot of things.”
Things like free time and certain foods. Mavi would have to put a lot of time and effort into exercising and practicing. She’d have to watch carefully what she ate. And after schoolwork and dance, there wouldn’t be much time for friends.
Mavi decided that her dream was important enough to her to try.
“The teenage years can be a complicated time,” she says. “My friends didn’t always understand why I wouldn’t eat certain things or stay out late with them.”
Mavi learned early on that what appeared to be restrictions on her freedom were actually the only way she could free herself from things that would keep her from her goal.
“I chose not to stay out late, and I chose to spend time practicing instead of going to the mall with my friends,” Mavi says. “If I was tired because I stayed out too late or if I didn’t know the steps because I didn’t practice, I couldn’t dance.”
That kind of discipline isn’t easy, but Mavi says it is worth it.
“Everyone has moments when you want to give in,” Mavi confesses, “but you have the power to choose. Discipline can appear restrictive, but self-discipline is a choice. And I chose to accept this lifestyle in order to dance.”
At some point during her drive to become a ballerina, Mavi realized that dancing was not the only goal she had or the only worthwhile thing she would need to sacrifice for.
Along the way, she gained a desire to follow Jesus Christ, and she realized that what ballet had taught her about discipline applies to gospel discipleship as well. Just as her friends had wondered why she would do what she did for dance, they asked why she lived such restrictive gospel principles.
“I explained that we have the liberty to choose, and I chose to accept this lifestyle in order to be free from sin and have the Holy Ghost with me,” she says.
Or as the Savior said it, a disciple must “take up his cross,” meaning to deny oneself all ungodliness and every worldly lust and to keep God’s commandments (see Joseph Smith Translation, Matthew 16:26). Such self-discipline brings us to “liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator,” while trying to live outside the commandments leads to “captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil” (2 Nephi 2:27).
“Obedience brings greater freedom and peace than anything,” Mavi says. “My goals aren’t limited to this earthly life but include eternity.”
Mavi floats across the stage like a leaf carried by the current, stretching and flowing from one move to the next—développé and pirouette, glissade and grand jeté.
A ballerina can make her body move in ways that would hurt most other people. This freedom of movement is essential for communicating with the audience. But even though a good ballerina makes every move look effortless on stage, she has put in a lot of effort off the stage.
After eight years of sacrifice and hours of training almost every day, she was living her dream on stage—and in the gospel.
“People think it looks so beautiful and graceful,” Mavi says. “But the movements are very controlled. It takes a lot of strength to control yourself like that.”
The gospel parallel is important. Following Christ takes strength. And the rewards are sweet.
“The rewards from so many sacrifices are that I can dance,” Mavi says. “I feel strong, and I feel the guidance of the Holy Ghost in every step I take—on stage and off.”
According to Nephi, once we’ve felt the desire to follow Christ and have been baptized and confirmed, we must still endure to the end (see 2 Nephi 31:19–20). For Mavi, ballet requires similar dedication.
After dancing in Paraguay, she returned to Viña del Mar, Chile, to teach for a few years. Now she wants to take her dancing to the next level. She has set new goals that have taken her to Argentina, Germany, Ireland, and Spain to study and audition with different ballet companies.
She knows she must continue to strive—both on the stage and in the gospel. She must continue with discipline if she wants the freedom to dance. And she must continue in faith if she wants the freedom that comes from discipleship. “If ye continue in my word,” the Lord taught, “then are ye my disciples indeed: and ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” (John 8:31–32).
Mavi has to put in a lot of effort off the stage to stay healthy and in shape. Aside from watching what she eats and getting enough rest, Mavi exercises a lot, and she dances at least five hours almost every day. But she doesn’t take care of herself just because she’s a dancer.
“As a member of the Church, I understand that my body is the temple of my spirit. As an artist, I need every part of my body to work right, so I protect it as best as I can. But as a member, I already knew I should do that.”
Her testimony of the Word of Wisdom’s inspired nature has been strengthened by her experience with ballet. “When you treat your body right, you can tell,” she says.
You have to take care of yourself to be a ballerina, but Mavi says, “We should all take care of our bodies, even if we aren’t dancers. We don’t get to choose our bodies, but we should all be grateful for and take care of what we have been given. They are gifts from God, and we’ve each been given our body for a purpose.”

On a rainy morning in 1953, 79-year-old President David O. McKay visited Thurso, Scotland, to see the home where his forebears had embraced the restored gospel more than 100 years earlier. President McKay’s son Llewelyn, who accompanied him on this visit, recalled: “[As we approached the home], the sun broke through the clouds and smiled at us as though he were reflecting the joy and happiness in father’s heart. As we all gathered in front of the home, tears came to father’s eyes as he looked through the door. ‘If it had not been for two missionaries knocking on this door about 1850, I shouldn’t be here today!’” he declared.1
Even though the home had fallen into disrepair and was by that time used only to store potatoes, President McKay lingered for some time in the doorway, speaking fondly of what had happened there. The gratitude and joy President McKay expressed that day were characteristic of his life and ministry. As a General Authority for almost 64 years, including 19 years as the ninth President of the Church, he served with the energy of one who cared deeply for people and for the gospel and found joy in bringing the two together.

One Saturday my wife and I realized that we did not have enough money to take public transportation to church the next day, and there was no way to make a cash withdrawal. Our tithing was in a donation envelope ready to be given to the bishop. We began to talk about how we would travel to church. If we used the tithing money to pay for transportation, we felt that the Lord would understand; however, we decided that it was not right.
The other possibility was to not go to church, and again we thought that the Lord would understand since we had never missed before. However, if that happened, we would not be able to take our tithing to the bishop, so that possibility was also ruled out.
Trying to be faithful, we decided to leave earlier than usual and walk to church. We left on that beautiful Sabbath day for the chapel, which was about three miles (4.8 km) from our home. For our four children (the oldest was six), it was like a party, and they enjoyed running and playing along the way.
When we reached a certain point on a wide and dangerous street, I heard the Spirit tell me, “You should cross now.” I told my wife, and she responded that it was dangerous because that part of the street began to curve, blocking our view of oncoming cars. I responded that I felt we should cross there, so we quickly crossed, my wife and I each taking two children. Just as we stepped onto the sidewalk, a car stopped on that side, and the driver asked, “Are you going to church?”
The driver was a brother who did not belong to our ward, but I had met him before because I had visited his ward. We responded affirmatively, and he offered to drive us there. As we got in the car, the brother explained that he never took this route and he was only passing that way because his business partner had lost the keys to the office and he was taking his keys to his partner.
I thought to myself that this hadn’t happened by chance. The Lord knew we needed transportation to go to church. Our tithing was in my pocket, and it provided us the opportunity to teach our children about the blessings that come from paying tithing. We arrived at the chapel earlier than ever but happy and grateful. We participated in all the meetings and did not tell anybody about what had happened.
Summers in São Paulo are very hot, especially at midday, when our Church meetings ended. We were preparing to return when someone came up and asked us, “Do you have someone to take you back?” We responded that we didn’t, and he said to us, “Do you want me to take you?” We accepted his offer, and my wife and I looked at each other with emotional smiles.
More than once the Lord had given us a great blessing for our obedience.

One day, when I had to make a difficult decision, I was so confused that I didn’t know what to feel or think. I knelt down and desperately prayed to my Father in Heaven, when the thought came that I should read the Liahona. At first I had difficulty reading, but after a while I noticed that the Spirit was with me. The articles strengthened my faith. Elder H. Ross Workman (see July 2006 issue) especially gave me new strength to recognize my decision.Ingelore Penshorn, Germany

My dad is not a member of the Church, so when I decided to be baptized I talked with him and told him why I wanted very much to be baptized and become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Eventually he talked to the missionaries and gave his consent, and I was baptized on 8 June 1997.
I am glad I was able to talk to my dad about why I wanted to be baptized. I am glad my mom talked to me about going to church and encouraged me to attend.

John Baker’s Last Race is the story of an Olympic-class miler at the University of New Mexico, who was headed for the 1972 Olympics when his career was cut short by cancer. In the time that was left of his life, after he learned of his illness, he devoted himself to coaching children. Despite great odds, he proved to be a master teacher, inspiring children who were difficult to reach and gaining the respect of the entire community.
Two days after his death, the Duke City Dashers, his girls’ track team, with tears streaming down their cheeks, won the AAU championships in St. Louis—for Coach Baker. And that same year a referendum was held in Albuquerque to change the name of the Alpine Elementary School to the John Baker Elementary School. There was not one dissenting vote.
School children and teachers who knew Baker actually took part in the film. Even the mayor was given a bit part. The scenes were the actual places in the school, home, hospital, and neighborhood where Baker lived and died.

Through grace, participants regain the hope they have lost. One participant, Edward, grew up in the Church, but his childhood insecurities left him feeling that he wasn’t as good as other people. He says, “I didn’t understand the Atonement, and I didn’t love myself, so nothing really mattered.” When he was in his 20s, he started drinking and using drugs in an attempt to dull his negative feelings—a pattern that continued for 20 years.
When he was arrested a second time for drunk driving, he was ordered to get treatment. In the Church’s program, he learned that receiving forgiveness and regaining a sense of self-worth were possible. He attended church every Sunday, studied the 12 steps, and applied these gospel principles and actions to his life. He became willing to turn his life over to Heavenly Father and, in the process, learned how to love himself and how to let the Atonement work in his life. “I couldn’t overcome all these things by myself,” he says. “The Savior can do for me what I can’t do for myself.”

Ryan Hughes (10) has a friend who lives in his front yard. He’s not an ordinary friend, of course. He has four legs, a long tail, and he moves so fast that Ryan hasn’t been able to catch him … yet.
He and his family—Dad, Robert; Mom, Leah; Tanya (16); Joshua (14); and Kayla (8)—used to live in Texas, and that’s where Ryan came to know lizards. His favorite spot there was a field where there were scores of them. When the family moved, Ryan was glad to find out that Georgia has a fair amount of lizards also. On a recent TV news program, Ryan learned of a boy who has trained a lizard to jump through hoops. Ryan has big plans for the reptile in his front yard!