Gospel Story Finder

I was in a fast and testimony meeting only last Sunday. A 15- or 16-year-old boy stood before the congregation and said that he had decided to be baptized.
Then one by one boys of the teachers quorum stepped to the microphone to express their love for him, to tell him that he was doing the right thing, and to assure him that they would stand with him and help him. It was a wonderful experience to hear those young men speak words of appreciation and encouragement to their friend. I am satisfied that all of those boys, including the one who was baptized last week, will go on missions.

Several years ago, the Salt Lake City newspapers published a notice of a close friend taken by death in the prime of her life. I visited the mortuary and joined a host of persons gathered to express condolence [sympathy] to the husband and motherless children. Suddenly the smallest child, Kelly, recognized me and took my hand in hers. “Come with me,” she said, and she led me to the casket in which rested the body of her beloved mother. “I’m not crying,” she said, “and neither must you. Many times my mommy told me about death and life with Heavenly Father. I belong to my mommy and my daddy. We’ll all be together again.” To my mind came the words of the Psalmist: “Out of the mouth of babes … hast thou ordained strength” (Psalm 8:2).
Through tear-moistened eyes, I saw my young friend’s beautiful and faith-filled smile. For her, whose tiny hand yet clasped mine, there would never be a hopeless dawn. Sustained by her unfailing testimony, knowing that life continues beyond the grave, she, her father, her brothers, her sisters, and indeed all who share this knowledge of divine truth can declare to the world: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5).

I was 20 when I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 2021. I hadn’t exactly been living “righteously”—quite the opposite, actually. Before joining the Church, I smoked, drank, and partied a lot, which is common for young adults in Hungary.
Yet as lightly as I treated these things, I never felt right doing them. I felt especially uncomfortable when it came to sexual interactions. I had learned from the world that the purpose of sex was for pleasure and self-gratification. Most people around me agreed that it wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t judge my friends for having that perspective, but I realized that sexual intimacy wasn’t insignificant to me.
I was ashamed of being one of those “weird” people who wanted to wait until marriage. I thought I could date someone who shared my point of view.
However, the world’s pressures became louder, and I started to believe that my expectations were too high. So I lowered my standards.
When I was 18, I was dating someone and told myself that I was being dramatic and naïve—that sex was not as serious as I thought. I made myself get over my uncomfortable emotions and believed I would feel right about it eventually.
But that never happened.
I’ve been a Christian since I was 16, but I didn’t have the law of chastity to reassure me that my instinctive feelings were trying to tell me who I am—a child of God who deserves love and commitment and holiness. I felt this truth but wasn’t sure of what it was until I learned about the gospel.
It can be easy to give in to the world’s loud voices. But as God’s children, I believe we all have a spiritual instinct from the Holy Ghost to be true to our divine identity. We don’t have to lower our standards or be ashamed of our beliefs. With faith in the Savior Jesus Christ, we can be different as we keep His commandments.
I always felt that sexual intimacy is sacred and more significant than the world makes it out to be. It’s meant to help eternal companions deepen their love and strengthen their covenants to one another as they build a celestial relationship and family.
But even so, as I learned about the gospel, changing my lifestyle wasn’t easy. Just as President Russell M. Nelson taught, “It takes faith to live a chaste life when the world shouts that God’s law of chastity is now outmoded.”1
Despite the pressures around me, my faith in Christ strengthened me to keep the commandments.
I am beyond grateful for the gift of repentance and for the Savior’s support and Atonement. Even when we make mistakes, He can sanctify our souls from guilt and shame and empower us in ways we never thought possible.
Nowadays I smile at how I used to think I would never find a companion who would be willing to follow the law of chastity. Becoming a member of the Church showed me that many of us are striving for the same standards. Living worthily helps me have confidence in my divine identity and peace in my heart as I move forward on the covenant path.
I experienced a lot of pain by not living the law of chastity. But as I sought Christ, I came to know how deeply Heavenly Father loves us. I can testify that He doesn’t want to restrict us—He wants to save us from pain, heartbreak, and other consequences and prepare us for a loving, lasting, and selfless eternal relationship.
Because of His love and laws and the gift of the Savior, I now feel the joy, redemption, and hope They offer. After all, “God’s greatest blessings are reserved for those who obey His laws. … [His] laws are motivated entirely by His infinite love for us and His desire for us to become all we can become.”2
I know that by following the Lord’s commandments and keeping covenants, you will understand His truths and see so many fulfilled promises and blessings in your life.
I know I have.
The author lives in Hungary.

Performance of duty, regardless of the sacrifice involved, is a part of dealing justly with oneself and others. Early in the history of this valley Joseph W. McMurrin was placed in charge of guarding some of the leaders of the Church. At a meeting in Social Hall in Salt Lake City, an intruder under a claim of authority tried to enter the hall; and Joseph W. McMurrin, being true to his trust to guard the servants of the Lord, restrained him from going through the door. President Heber J. Grant relates that the intruder “finally got his hand loose and took his pistol and, pressing it against Brother McMurrin’s body, fired two bullets … through his vitals. Those bullets lodged just under the skin in his back. He was attended by Dr. Joseph Benedict who told Joseph W. McMurrin that no man could live after two bullets had passed through his vitals, and then added: ‘If you wish to make a dying statement you should do so immediately.’

“I went with John Henry Smith to Brother McMurrin’s home and saw where the flesh was burned away around those terrible gaping wounds. I saw where the bullets had gone clear through him. I heard John Henry Smith say, ‘By the authority of the Priesthood of the living God which we hold, and in the name of the Lord, Jesus Christ, we say that you shall be made absolutely whole, and that there shall be no physical weakness left upon your body because of these terrible wounds that you have received while guarding the servants of the living God.’”

On November 21, 1931, President Grant concluded, “Joseph W. McMurrin is alive and well, and has never had any physical weakness because of those terrible wounds.” (Gospel Standards, Salt Lake City: Improvement Era, 1969, pp. 310–11.)

Sunshine was coming through the windows at Jonnie’s house, and everyone was still sleeping, except Jonnie.
Mother opened her eyes as Jonnie bounced into the bedroom.
“Hi, Mom,” he said happily. “I bet you can’t guess what I am.”
“Hi, Jonnie,” Mom answered as she rubbed her eyes.
Jonnie climbed over Mom and put his face in front of Dad’s.
“Hi, Dad,” he grinned.
“Hi, Jonnie,” Dad mumbled. Then he rolled his sleepy face to the other side.
Jonnie climbed over Dad’s back. “I bet you can’t guess what I am,” he said as he bounced up and down on his hands and knees.
Dad decided to give up trying to sleep. He opened his eyes. “You must be a tickle, tickle, tiddlemouse,” he said as he tried to tickle Jonnie.
Jonnie wiggled away and climbed back on the other side of the bed by Mom.
“Can you guess what I am?” he asked. Mom grabbed him and tried to kiss his cheek. Jonnie wiggled away from Mom too.
“Now I know what you are. You’re a wiggle, wiggle, wiggle worm,” Mom guessed.
“No, I’m not a wiggle, wiggle, wiggle worm,” declared Jonnie, bouncing some more.
Daddy rolled his head back toward them and said, “You must be a jump, jump kangaroo.”
“No, I’m not a jump, jump kangaroo,” said Jonnie and he laughed because no one could guess.
Mom leaned her head way over by Dad’s. “I think he’s a bouncing bunny rabbit,” she whispered.
“I heard you! I heard you,” Jonnie shouted as he jumped up and down. “I’m not a bouncing bunny rabbit.”
“I give up,” said Dad. “I can’t guess what you are.”
“I give up too,” added Mom. “What are you?”
Jonnie stood up tall on their bed. “I’m a big cowboy,” he said in a deep voice. “And I’m riding my horse.” Then he galloped away to the other room.

“We were so scared. We didn’t know if you’d like us,” said an anglo leader.
“I’ve never known a lot of Lamanites before, and I am proud to be one,” said a Lamanite participant.
The thoughts were being voiced at a testimony meeting concluding a five-day girls camp for Lamanite girls from the Southwest Indian Mission. Also participating were Anglo girls and leaders.
“Sometimes brownskins and whiteskins in our area don’t have the nicest of feelings toward each other,” said a participant, “so we looked forward to this camp so that we could make sure bad feelings didn’t happen in the Church, where we have a real commitment to respect and love each other.”
Besides spirits’ being lifted—many Lamanite girls thrilled at being among the tall fir trees, mountain peaks, and cold streams outside of Farmington, New Mexico—some conversions occurred, and friendships flowered all over the place. It was a worthy goal—elimination of prejudice—and in this instance, a superb way to accomplish it.

When I was in sixth grade, my family moved. One of my new friends was not a member of the Church.
One Sunday, my friend called me. He wanted me to come bowling with him and his parents that afternoon. I had only been bowling once before, and I had really liked it. Bowling again would be really fun, especially with my new friend. I immediately went to ask my mom.
“Well,” she said, “it’s Sunday, so I don’t think you should go. But you can make your own decision.”
I was shocked! I thought that she would say no. Instead the choice was all mine. So I chose to go bowling with my friend.
Pretty soon my friend, his parents, and I were at the bowling alley. I did really well! My friend and I had fun. But the whole time, there was a sinking feeling in my stomach. I knew in my heart that my mom was right. I had learned at church and at home that making Sunday a holy day was important. Going bowling with my friend wasn’t the best Sunday activity.
That day, I learned an important lesson. It is good to have fun and be with friends! But choosing to make Sunday special is more important.

The girls in the Holladay Stake First Ward in Utah, USA, know their activity day plans are much more fun when more girls are involved. That’s why they made a special effort to get every girl in their neighborhood to come to the activities. The group was praying for more members when they realized that there were many girls nearby they could invite to attend. With the help of their leaders, they decided to reach out to their friends from school and in their neighborhood.
At first the girls were nervous to knock on doors and talk to others, but their leaders encouraged them and let them do all the talking. Soon they had many new friends! When they started their project, only four girls were coming regularly. Now the group has more than 20 girls who participate every week!

Nathan’s fingers smashed the buttons on the controller. He was so close to beating this level! He stared at the TV while his rocket ship dodged the green blasts.
“Nathan, time for dinner!” Mom called.
Bam! Nathan’s ship got hit. Nathan groaned. Now he’d have to restart. But he knew he could beat this level if he tried just one more time.
Dad came into the room. “Did you hear Mom? It’s time to eat.”
Nathan sighed and paused the game. He and Dad sat down with the rest of the family. Nathan ate his food as fast as he could. He wanted to get back to his game.
“Thanks! That was good.” He jumped up from the table.
“Slow down, buddy,” Dad said. “Mom and I want to talk with you.”
Uh-oh. Was Nathan in trouble?
When everyone else was done, Mom and Dad stayed at the table with Nathan.
“We’ve noticed you’ve been spending a lot of time playing video games,” Dad said.
Nathan squirmed. “They’re really fun.”
“That’s true,” Mom said. “But other things are fun too. We missed you yesterday when we were playing games as a family. We always have more fun when you’re with us!”
Nathan had been working on an awesome bonus level last night. By the time he beat it, his family was done playing games. He felt kind of sad he missed it.
Nathan frowned. “Does this mean I’m not allowed to play video games anymore?”
“We’re not saying that,” Dad said. “We just want you to be more aware of how much time you spend on them. And to make sure they’re not keeping you from other important things, like chores and homework and scripture study.”
Nathan looked down. “I guess I have been falling behind on some stuff.”
“We’re sure you can figure out how to find a better balance,” Dad said.
“Could you help me?” Nathan asked.
Mom smiled. “Of course.”
Together, Nathan, Mom, and Dad decided how much video game time Nathan should have each day. Then they came up with a plan. They would put a poster of a stoplight next to the TV. If Nathan could stop playing when Mom and Dad called him, the stoplight would go on yellow. If they had to ask him more than once, it would go on red. And if he could stop on his own before they asked, it would go on green.
Each night before bedtime, they would talk about how Nathan did that day. If the stoplight was on red, he would have less time to play the next day. But if it stayed on green, Mom and Dad would take him to the space museum!
Nathan knew it would be hard to change his habits. But he was ready for the challenge.
For the first few days, the stoplight stayed on yellow. Then Nathan messed up, and it had to go to red. He wanted to try extra hard next time. So the next day, he set an alarm so he would know how long he’d been playing. Finally, he made it to green!
After a few days of green, Mom and Dad took him to the space museum. Nathan stared up at a giant rocket. It looked like the one in his game, but even cooler. He grinned. It was fun to be here with Mom and Dad. He wanted to see how long he could stay on green!
This story took place in the USA.

Shelby didn’t like hearing bad words, especially when her friends at school took the Lord’s name in vain.
“Please don’t say those words around me,” she’d say to her friends.
But sometimes they forgot, and she had to remind them.
One day Shelby’s friend Beth rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Nobody says those words in front of Shelby. She’s trying to make us good like she is.”
The other girls laughed.
Shelby was embarrassed. She felt bad for always asking her friends not to say those words around her—especially when they didn’t think the words were bad.
When Shelby got home from school, she flopped down on her bed. Her mother came in a few minutes later, and Shelby told her what had happened.
“Try not to worry about it,” Mom said. “You just keep doing the right thing, and eventually your friends won’t want to say those words anymore.”
“Why does it matter if my friends say those words?” Shelby asked. “It’s not like I am swearing.”
“The prophets have taught us that we should keep ourselves worthy to feel the Spirit at all times. Bad words offend the Spirit,” Mom said.
Shelby remembered times she had felt the Spirit: at family home evening, when she bore her testimony, when she got a blessing from her father. Shelby liked feeling the Spirit, and she didn’t want to do anything that would offend that warm, peaceful comfort.
She made up her mind to keep being an example to her friends and help them to understand that she didn’t like to hear those words.
The next day at school, she heard those words again.
“Please don’t say those words around me,” Shelby asked Becca.
Becca glared at Shelby and then ignored her. Shelby was glad she had said something but felt sad that her friend was upset.
At recess Shelby heard someone say those words again. This time it was Beth.
“Please don’t say that around me,” Shelby said.
“Sorry,” Beth said, rolling her eyes.
Shelby felt silly once again.
At softball practice after school, Shelby hit a ball. It bounced to first base and got there before Shelby did. Shelby heard Bonnie, the new girl on the team, take the Lord’s name in vain.
Shelby hesitated. She was tired of asking people not to say those kinds of words around her. She didn’t want the other girls to make fun of her.
“Please don’t say those words around her.”
Shelby turned around to see who had spoken.
Beth was telling Bonnie that Shelby was a Latter-day Saint and that she didn’t say those kinds of words and didn’t feel comfortable hearing those words either.
Bonnie turned and looked at Shelby. “Sorry, Shelby. I didn’t know.”
Beth grinned at Shelby. “I guess we’re all becoming more like you,” Beth said.
Shelby smiled. She was happy she had made the decision to be a good example to her friends and to follow the prophet’s counsel to keep the Spirit with her.

“I’ve always loved theater, and I think Shakespeare teaches universal truths,” says Chelsea, who started the neighborhood children’s theater at the request of a 10-year-old boy in her ward. “Being in these plays increases the children’s confidence and has broken down a lot of social barriers in our neighborhood.”
Getting the theater off the ground was both frightening and rewarding for Chelsea. “It was scary to do because I’m not much older than a lot of these children, and I was afraid they wouldn’t listen to me or that they would quit, so it took a lot of prayer for me to put that first production together, and it strengthened my faith to have those prayers answered.”

With the trusting nature of a child, four-year-old Chitalu Kennedy from Lusaka, Zambia ran into the open arms of Jesus! The moment was later captured on canvas by Latter-day Saint artist Liz Lemon Swindle in a heartwarming painting entitled Worth of a Soul. Since 2008, this painting has found a place in our hearts. We see the Savior draw this young, trusting child to Him. As we look into this young child’s eyes it may really be ourselves that we see. If we allow the Spirit in, it will testify that it is really each one of us that is cradled in His arms.
Kennedy was orphaned when both parents passed passed away from undiagnosed diseases just a couple of months apart. They left behind eight cherished children, the youngest just three weeks old. The lives of Kennedy and his brothers and sisters were forever changed. The emptiness and loss robbed him of hope. That feeling would follow him for many years. His Spirit craved acceptance, love and belonging.
Two years after his parents’ passing, on a sunny day in Lusaka West, Zambia at the Mothers Without Borders Children’s Center, where Kennedy and some of his siblings were being cared for, a man portraying the Savior arrived with the artist and a photographer where an environment was created with the desire to photograph African children with the Savior so that a much-needed painting could be created.
Kennedy was then four years old. With the innocence of a child, and fully believing this man to be the Savior, he broke loose from the grip of his sister Bridget’s hand and ran toward him. He jumped into his outstretched arms. Throughout the day, Kennedy rarely left his side. Was the Spirit whispering to him that something here was familiar?
As a young orphan, Kennedy depended on others for survival. Prior to being brought to the children’s center, he and his siblings were scattered among relatives. As with most experiences in life, some of the times were good, some desperate. Throughout it all, and despite separation from each other, the siblings remain bonded together. His older brother Bwalya was ever present in his life and took on the role of father and protector even though he was only two years older than Kennedy.
Kennedy was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when he was nine and became a baptized member at the age of eleven. Five siblings were also baptized.
As a young teenager, life became difficult for Kennedy when no funds were available for his continued housing, food and much desired education. It was at this time that BJ Warnick, Sandra Peters, and Anthony Mulenga—who had all known Kennedy since he was four—were able to take him into their care. Through their Heart to Hands Foundation, he and Bwalya were immediately adopted into their flock. While it was obvious that Kennedy needed the basics required for daily survival, what he really needed was hope and love and they had plenty of that to offer. Kennedy said while he was not officially adopted, it was even better. He now had two moms. With his new family’s help, he was able to complete grade twelve, obtain a driver’s license and complete auto mechanic school. Again, he was wrapped in the arms of his Savior, but it was through the acts of others. Kennedy remarked, “I don’t know who I would have become without the continual love of my enlarged family and friends who have dedicated so much time to me.”
It was a year ago that Kennedy made the decision to serve a mission and to become those arms of the Savior for others. His ‘better than adopted family’, his brother Bwalya and his determined Bishop Michael Simbeya in the Libala Ward helped him prepare. While at the Ghana MTC, before departing to the Kenya Nairobi mission, miracles occurred and he was able to attend the temple and take part not only in his father’s ordinance work, but also to participate in the sealing of his parents and finally his sealing to them for time and all eternity.
Now, as Elder Chitalu, in the mission office he met Sister Stacie Sturt, mission leader for Kenya Nairobi West Mission. She captured this beautiful photo of Elder Kennedy Chitalu standing in front of the picture of his much younger self, cradled in the arms of his Savior. Now he wears a name tag as a representative of Jesus Christ. It is his turn to wrap his arms around others and help bring them to Christ. He testifies: “I know and stand as a solemn witness that Jesus Christ is our Savior, and I know that His Atonement has healing power for all kinds of afflictions”.

Eric sat down on the couch next to his mom and wondered why she looked sad.
“We need to talk,” Mom said.
“Let me guess. It’s something about the move, right?” Eric asked. It seemed to Eric like almost everything had to do with the move.
“Well, yes,” Mom said. “It’s about Muffie.”
“What about Muffie?” Worry crept into Eric’s voice.
Mom sighed. “We can’t have pets in the new apartment.”
“But she’s my dog!” Eric patted Muffie’s head as she lay beside him. “She goes with me wherever I go.”
“I’m sorry, Eric. We can’t take her with us, but …”
Eric didn’t hear any more. He ran to his room and flung himself on the bed as Muffie followed. Eric buried his face in the quilt Grandma had made him. He didn’t want Muffie to see him cry. Muffie whined softly and wiggled her small honey-colored body next to Eric. She did that whenever he was confused or upset.
Eric thought about the first day Muffie wandered into his yard. She had bounded up to him, her stub of a tail wagging like she knew him. He and his mom tried to find the dog’s owner, but they couldn’t. Mom let Eric keep Muffie. Now, everything seemed so unfair. Eric wondered why this was happening.
Eric didn’t sleep well that night. In the morning, Mom asked, “Would you like to talk about it?”
Eric swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m too sad.”
“I don’t blame you for being sad or even angry.” Mom put her arm around him. “When I was little, my dog Pancho ran away. I never knew if he found a good home. It’s different with Muffie. We’ll find her a place to live.”
“Muffie’s home is with me,” Eric said. “Why can’t we get a place where we can keep her?”
“I can’t find an apartment that will allow pets,” Mom said. “Besides, Muffie wouldn’t be happy in a crowded place where she can’t run around.”
“If I were Muffie, I wouldn’t like that either,” he admitted. “But I’ll miss her.”
Mom spoke gently. “I have an idea. When you pray tonight, ask Heavenly Father to help you feel better and to help us find a good home for Muffie. After all, He loves Muffie too.”
After his prayer that evening, Eric was filled with warmth and peace. He felt that Heavenly Father would help take care of Muffie.
Mom put an ad in the paper, but days passed and no one called. In the meantime, Eric spent every spare moment with Muffie.
The move was only a week away, and Muffie still didn’t have a new home. Eric prayed harder than ever. He hoped that Heavenly Father would not forget about Muffie.
The day before the movers came, Mom said, “I don’t know what else to do except take Muffie to the animal shelter.”
Eric’s stomach tightened.
“Don’t worry,” Mom said. “Someone will adopt her, and she’ll find a good place to live.”
Eric wasn’t listening. He couldn’t understand why—after so many prayers—he still had to take Muffie to the animal shelter.
The next morning, Mom and Eric rode in silence to the shelter. When they arrived, Eric slowly tugged Muffie on her leash toward the shelter. Muffie jerked back as Eric tried to move her through the door.
“Come on, girl. It’ll be OK,” Eric said, but he wasn’t convinced.
While Eric’s mom signed papers, Muffie squirmed and barked. Afterward, Eric knelt and held Muffie close to him, then ran out of the room. He couldn’t bear to say good-bye. It was bad enough hearing her yelps.
Eric threw himself into the car. As they drove away, Mom offered comfort, but Eric remained quiet. He felt numb inside. “Why is this happening?” he wondered.
Suddenly, he noticed the toy dog bone still in his pocket. It was the good-luck bone he had wanted to give Muffie.
“We have to go back, Mom. I forgot to give Muffie the bone.”
At the shelter, Mom waited in the car while Eric went inside. A worker was trying to put tags on Muffie’s collar. Her barks of protest changed to a yip of glee when she saw Eric. She jumped into his arms. Eric wished he could stop the tightness in his throat.
Behind him, the door opened, and a little boy and a woman walked in. The boy pointed at Muffie and said, “Look, Mom, it’s Fluff!”
“After all this time? I don’t know, Tommy,” his mom said.
Eric watched with big eyes. Tommy edged forward. “Fluff. Here, girl,” he coaxed.
Muffie hesitated only a moment before she leapt toward Tommy. Eric stared at his own empty arms, then looked at his dog and Tommy together. It reminded Eric of his own first meeting with Muffie.
“Wait, Tommy.” His mother turned to Eric. “Is she yours?”
“Well, she, I …” Eric stammered.
“She can’t be yours. I lost my Fluff months ago, and now she’s back.” Tommy patted Muffie, and she nuzzled his cheek.
“Could she really be Tommy’s lost dog?” Eric asked himself. Eric was still sad, but the look in Tommy’s eyes made it not hurt so much anymore to let Muffie go. “Bye, girl,” he whispered.
When Eric told his mom what had happened, she hugged him tightly. “It’s all right, Mom,” Eric said. “Muffie is OK because Heavenly Father really does love her too.”

“Dad was on his first mission and was the mission secretary in charge of the travel preparations for the missionaries in Europe. When it came time for him and his companions to leave, he booked their passage on the big “unsinkable” ocean liner, the Titanic. However, one of the boys could not go then so Dad changed their departure date. When the boys heard that the Titanic had sunk, they all knelt down and thanked the Lord for preserving them.”

As a child, Isaiah John attended the Pentecostal church with his mother. At a certain point, he went to live with his brother in Monrovia. He continued attending the Pentecostal church after his move. One day he met a missionary who asked him about his beliefs and then asked him if he would be willing to visit The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Isaiah agreed. Right away he noticed a difference that he liked and that felt good. Isaiah began taking the lessons and prayed about what he should do. He wanted to do the right thing. He was baptized in October 2018. Isaiah was so happy to be baptized and confirmed. He was grateful for the gift of the Holy Ghost.
His mother came to visit and asked Isaiah if he was still going to church. He said “Yes, but not to the Pentecostal church”.
Isaiah said he will never forget what she said to him: “Brother Isaiah, do you know that the Church you are going to is a perfect church that has embraced the gospel of Jesus?”
He replied, “Yes, mom, I love the Church” and he explained that at church they talk about Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, the Holy Ghost, and they teach how to live. Before she died in 2022, she told him to continue attending his church if he knew it was true, which made him very happy.
One day he was attending church and felt strongly that he needed to help others learn about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. He had friends that were getting ready to go on a mission. That caused him to start thinking about a mission and recognized that it would make Heavenly Father happy. He prayed about it and asked Him for help getting the passport and other things ready. His sister and bishop answered that prayer by helping him get everything prepared.
Before he came to the missionary training center, he was discussing with a missionary about temple work. The thought came to him that his parents had given him life and done everything for him, and this was something he could do for them. He printed the temple ordinance cards and brought them with him. Elder John had the opportunity to attend the temple and to do the necessary ordinances for his mother and father. On 12 December 2023, Elder John was able to participate in having his parents sealed together, and he was then sealed to his parents. He felt as if his mother was asking him again “Brother Isaiah, do you know that this Church is the perfect Church?”
In his mind he, once again, answered “Yes, mom, I love the Church and know it is true.”
He knows that someday they will all be together, and that brings him great joy and peace.

As I flipped through the pages of a dictionary, I decided to look up a word that means a lot to me—family. As I read the definition, I thought how different it was from my definition. The dictionary read, “two parents and all their children living in the same house.” Well, all my 11 brothers and sisters don’t live in one house, and we are not from the same parents. But we’re a family, a very special family.
I knew why we gathered that night. I could hardly make myself come to believe it, but I knew. So did everyone else. Looking at my father, I could tell he was trying hard to control himself in front of us. But in his eyes, he couldn’t hide the pain.
We were brought together that night for the strength we knew we would receive through prayer. We all knelt, my grandparents, my father, and five of my brothers and sisters. Each of us held another’s trembling hand as we called upon the Spirit to help and guide us in whatever our Father in Heaven had planned. For a moment, it felt like everything was all right. We were a family, and my mother seemed to be there, smiling and looking over us so proud and happy. It seemed like our little circle was hurled into space where nothing could enter, not even the ugly disease that was slowly taking our mother away from us.
After the prayer we all knew the Spirit was there, even though my mother wasn’t. Every few seconds you could hear a little sob, but nobody looked into anyone’s eyes for fear of not being able to hold in all the emotion. My father broke the semisilence with tears in his eyes when he said, “Everything’s going to be all right.”
A week later my mother died. How would it be in a motherless home, without the encouraging look of a proud mother to push us along when times got rough? I thought mothers were always supposed to be there. Who was going to teach me all the things mothers are supposed to teach their daughters? Who was I going to have those special talks with? Why did it have to be my mother?
My father knew it was up to him. It must have been like a building falling on him to have all the responsibility of raising the family. After losing the woman he loved so dearly, he had to be strong to set the example for his family. He did. I remember him standing there and asking us if we understood about paradise and heaven. We all hesitated, as if a nod of approval to his question was an approval for her to die, but then with great effort he told us she was gone. My father’s a big man, but he was even bigger then, when I knew that inside his heart was broken and he was full of loneliness.
For about a year I played the role of the mother of the house. I loved my family, and I wanted to take care of them, but I sometimes wondered, “Why do I have to stay home and watch the little kids, fix supper, and do the laundry?” I was only in junior high school. In those moments when I would start to cry, I’d see my father. He tried so hard to make our home happy. All day he would work hard and then come home and listen to our problems and our complaints and smile and say he loved us. I never once heard him complain or break down in front of us. He knew the whole family depended on him. If he broke down, the family would also. But if he were strong, the family would follow.
I remember those days and all the pain and testing we went through. Looking at pictures that were taken then, I can still see the pain when I look into the eyes of those in the photographs.
The bond of trust that grew between my father and me was so strong that when my father asked me what I would think if he remarried, I was able to answer truthfully, “Do what you think is right.” Some of my older brothers and sisters didn’t agree with me, but I trusted him to do the right thing.
As the time grew closer, I grew excited to meet the woman my father loved and wanted to marry. But as I walked into the room, I saw a tall, slim, dark-haired woman who wasn’t my mother kissing my father. For a split second a door within me burst open, spilling all the hurt, jealousy, and anger that I felt for this woman. Then just as quickly, it closed without ever changing the smile on my face. That door was destroyed then, never to be opened again.
Many of our relatives and friends loved my mother and wouldn’t accept anyone else. They kept telling my father that he was wrong and was making a big mistake. But he wouldn’t listen, and neither would I. All I knew was that I had to trust my father. When I saw my two youngest sisters cuddled up to this woman while she sang them little songs she made up, I knew it was right. She was to be our new mother, and we all needed her, especially those two. As we grew to know her, we all eventually grew to love her.
My new mother left behind a big, beautiful house when she packed up her four children and moved into our little green house, a home in which she knew she wasn’t totally accepted. I admired how strong she was to be able to make a move like that, but I knew Heavenly Father, and maybe even my mother, helped her.
From then on it was more a matter of time. Slowly, with all of us pulling, we became closer, a family again. Together my father and new mother brought two more spirits into the world and into our family, making a grand total of 12 children. If nothing else made us a family, it was those two little spirits. Their presence created an unbreakable bond between two families that needed each other.
We were a family by our own special definition.

Brother Consky was an old, bent man with deep wrinkles and feathery white hair. He lived down our street in a small, beat-up house that seemed kind of spooky to us kids. Big strips of red paint had peeled off the outside walls, and ugly weeds grew wild everywhere. Once in a while Brother Consky pulled his curtains back and peeked out at us as we played, which made him seem spooky too. We decided to keep clear of him.
We would have done just that if it hadn’t been for Mom. “Boys,” she called to my brother, Jeremy, and me one day. “I need you to run dinner over to Brother Consky.”
Jeremy and I stared at each other in wide-eyed disbelief.
In the kitchen, we pleaded our cause. “Mom, we just can’t go. We’re in the middle of a very important scientific discovery (watching a spider devour a fly). We’ll miss the whole thing!” Our argument sounded good to us, but I guess it wasn’t very convincing to Mom.
She gave us that “if you know what’s good for you” look and handed us a couple of plates.
“It will only take a minute. Brother Consky is ill and can’t get his own meals. Dad has just been assigned as his home teacher, so you’d better get used to going over to his house. Besides, he could use your smiles. He doesn’t have any family to care for him.”
“Well, I’ll take the food,” I grumbled. “But I won’t promise a smile.”
Mom gave me another look and marched us out the door.
We walked slowly down the street and hesitated at the broken-down gate in front of Brother Consky’s house. It squeaked as we opened it. We stopped for a minute, then forced our trembling legs to walk through the scratchy weeds to the front door.
Jeremy slowly raised his hand and knocked timidly.
“Come in,” a raspy voice called out.
I hadn’t counted on going inside! I turned the doorknob and shoved Jeremy ahead. When I was sure it was safe, I followed him. For a moment I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Then my eyes began to focus, and I’ll never forget what I saw.
The room was empty except for an old gray couch where Brother Consky lay looking dull and sad. The floors were bare and cold, and the curtains torn and stained. There were no bright autumn leaves in vases like Mom put in our house. But worst of all were the walls. Green paint had faded and chipped, leaving great big spots of moldy gray plasterboard. It was a cold, dreary place, and I was glad when we were finally out in the sunshine again.
From then on, Jeremy and I took food over to Brother Consky every Wednesday and Sunday. Each visit was the same. We sat in the dark, moldy room, answered a few questions, and waited for our release into the bright world outside.
Fall passed slowly into the first week of December. Christmas trees and bright lights appeared in other homes but not in Brother Consky’s. One Wednesday he didn’t answer our knocks.
“Try the door,” I said. “He’s always up waiting for us.”
I knew that if we returned home with plates still full of food, Mom would send us right back.
The rusty knob turned, and the door clicked open.
“Brother Consky?” I called. “Are you here?”
The house was dark and still except for the eerie humming of the refrigerator.
“Brother Consky?” I called again as I walked down the hall and into the bedroom. Then, “Jeremy!” I yelled. Jeremy came running into the room. Brother Consky was hunched up on the floor. “Run and get Mom and Dad.”
My heart pounded faster as I sat there and waited and watched. As much as I had complained about going to Brother Consky’s every week, deep down inside, I liked him. I didn’t want him to die. Tears stung my eyes, and I quickly brushed them back as Mom and Dad hurried into the room.
“What happened?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know. I just found him like this.”
“Quick, Ken. Call the ambulance.”
Soon I heard the whining siren. In a matter of minutes Brother Consky was lifted onto a stretcher and taken away.
Two weeks passed. Each Wednesday and Sunday Jeremy and I walked to Brother Consky’s and stood outside the broken gate.
“I wish he was here for us to visit now,” said Jeremy glumly one Wednesday.
“Me too.” I also wished that I’d never complained about going to his house.
The next night Dad announced that Brother Consky was getting better and would be coming home the day before Christmas.
Jeremy and I jumped out of our seats and cheered.
Later that night Jeremy and I lay wide awake trying to think of something special to give Brother Consky for his homecoming.
“How about bringing in a Christmas tree and decorating it for him,” suggested Jeremy.
“Great idea, but it’s not enough. It has to be something really neat.”
“Good night, boys,” Mom called upstairs. Somehow she always knew when we were whispering.
Jeremy rolled over and went to sleep, but I was too excited. I thought of Brother Consky cooped up in his house. I remembered when I’d been sick how awful it was to stay inside all day, staring at the same four walls. I had felt like a prisoner caged in a cell, and I’d desperately wanted to escape the walls that held me in. The walls—that’s it! The perfect gift!
The next morning, before I could even gulp any breakfast down, I told my family about my plan.
“Dad, I need your help on a special project.”
“Sure, James. What is it?”
“Jeremy and I want to give Brother Consky a welcome-home gift, and I have the perfect idea—newly painted walls! You’ve seen his house. How would you like to lie in bed staring at those ugly walls?”
I ran on excitedly, “We have over a week before he comes home. If we all pitch in and paint, it will be done and we can bring him into a bright new room!”
“That’s a great idea, James. We’ll get the paint and start on it tomorrow.”
I saw him wink at Mom.
Later, as I was rounding up paintbrushes, I heard Dad on the phone: “No, Stan. We won’t need the elder’s quorum now. Two Christmas elves beat you to the idea. We’re going to start tomorrow.”
Early in the afternoon on the twenty-fourth, Dad wheeled Brother Consky into his newly painted home. The walls glowed with fresh paint. The new curtains Mom had made were parted to let the sunshine in. A Christmas tree glistened with lights and tinsel. Outside, last summer’s dead weeds had been cleared away and the fence fixed. To Jeremy and me, it looked like a castle.
Brother Consky sat there stunned. For a moment no one spoke as his eyes wandered from wall to wall. Then a smile cracked his lips. He looked at Jeremy and then at me. I saw tears in his eyes. He reached out a shaky hand and took my hand and squeezed it. I moved closer than I’d ever been to him and threw my arms around his neck.
Jeremy and I still visit Brother Consky. Only now we don’t go just on Wednesdays and Sundays. We stop off almost every day on our way home from school. He likes to hear about what we’re doing, and he even helps us with our math. Best of all, we just like being there with him, listening to his stories.

My mother was born in Poprad, Czechoslovakia (now Slovakia). Her father served in the Czech army during World War II, and his was one of many military families that fled into nearby woods for safety from German occupiers. For five days, my grandparents huddled under a blanket with my mother and her sister, ages one and five, eating a ration of sugar cubes.
My grandparents were not members of the Church at this time, nor did they pray often. However, during this ordeal, their hearts were softened. My grandmother wrote in her journal, “This very night I felt a longing for kneeling down to ask for help from someone who had a higher authority. So I went a little ways into the forest, knelt down, and prayed with a broken heart and a contrite spirit. I pleaded for help.”
Her prayer was answered. Some families in the woods were killed upon discovery, but my grandparents and their two daughters were miraculously protected. Through this exhausting and trying experience, the Lord planted a seed of faith and trust in my grandparents’ hearts.

Six-year-old Catherine sang as she followed Joseph and his plow down the long brown furrows, dropping yellow kernels of corn into the newly turned soil:
One for the cutworm,
One for the crow,
One to rot, and
One to grow.
Joseph called over his shoulder, “If Alvin doesn’t get back with some money, all that corn will go to the land agents. And from what I hear, they’re not about to share it with a cutworm or a crow or anything else.”
Catherine had heard her father talk about land agents, but she wasn’t sure just what they were. “What are land agents, Joseph?” she asked.
Her brother pulled the ox to a halt and explained, “They’re men who sell property. If there is a drought or your crops don’t sell and you can’t pay the mortgage money, they come and take the farm back.” Then he paused for a moment, remembering his father’s dawn-to-dark labor when they’d first cleared the land of trees to plant crops.
The whole family had helped tap the thousand sugar maple trees in the spring. Joseph also remembered the split-wood chairs and baskets and the straw brooms his father had made to sell to help pay for the farm. His father had even hired out as a hand for other farmers to bring in precious money. But still there wasn’t enough.
Catherine brought her brother back from his recollecting. “Are they going to take our farm, Joseph?”
“It looks like it, unless we can raise some more money. Alvin is still out on his job as a carpenter’s helper with a crew that’s building log houses, and Mother has been selling a lot of her painted oilcloth covers.”
“I’ve helped Mother sell cakes and gingerbread and root beer on public days,” Catherine said, beaming.
“Well, we’ve all helped. But it hasn’t been enough.” Joseph sighed as he slapped the reins against the rump of the ox. “I wish I could do something more.”
“You’ve been helping to clear trees and plowing and planting the corn and pumpkins. That’s a big help.”
“Sure. But we need money. And we need it right away.”
Catherine let out a deep breath and sat down on the broken black earth. “Will we have to let the land agents take our farm?” she asked.
“If we can’t pay all the mortgage money, we will. And the law backs them up. But it just doesn’t seem right after we’ve spent two years clearing trees from sixty acres of land and planting crops and building a four-room log house besides. They’d only turn around and sell it again for a heap of money, and we wouldn’t get a penny for all the improvements we’ve made.”
Catherine understood now why some folks said the land agents were really land robbers. The thought was still in her mind when a large black crow flew down and began to scratch for the newly planted corn. Her frustration erupted. Skirts flying, she chased after the bird, shaking her fist.
“Get out of here you old domineker!” she yelled as the bird flapped off in panic. “I won’t let you take our corn!”
Young Joseph had to laugh at the sight of her, and his laughter skipped across the clearing into the open window of the house. His mother was just lifting the lid on the cooking pot in the fireplace when she heard it. She smiled and felt a sudden sense of relief. How she wished she could stir some of it into the venison stew. They needed all the laughter they could get these days.
She left the stew sputtering against the pot lid as she called to her family. “Supper’s on!”
Later after supper, Joseph’s father, as always, felt for his spectacles. When his hand found the lower right-hand pocket of his vest, that was the signal for a reading from the Bible and for family prayer.
That night the family had an extra long prayer. Father Smith thanked Heavenly Father for His “mercy which endureth forever.” Then he pleaded for help in somehow obtaining the money that was needed. When all members of the family had added their amen, they sang the usual hymn:
Another day has passed and gone,
We lay our garments by—
The song was interrupted by a loud knock. Mr. Smith opened the door and invited a neighbor from down the road to come in.
“Much obliged, Joe. I came to ask if you’d let me hire one of your boys for a few days. I need to dig a well.”
Alvin was away working and young Joseph knew his father needed Hyrum to help cut trees. “I could do it, sir,” he said eagerly.
His father smiled. “Joseph’s able. He’ll give you a good day’s work for a day’s pay.”
“I know your boys are good workers. They’ve worked alongside their pa until they’re better than most men. That’s why I’m here. Young Joseph will be fine.”
Joseph was so happy that he had to take a big breath to keep from shouting out loud: The Lord is surely opening up the way. Things are going to work out. I’m sure of it. He was so sure that he wasn’t a bit surprised when Alvin arrived home a few days later with the money he had earned. Just the same, it was a tense moment when the whole family gathered to count their savings. Is it enough? they wondered.
Joseph held his breath as the cash was totaled. It was enough; they’d made it. Tears and laughter mingled as they realized that Alvin’s earnings added to what Joseph and the others had been able to raise would save their farm!
(To be continued.)

As the soft, gray drizzle grew into a steady downpour, Mackinzee Waters pushed a damp wisp of hair from her eyes and quickly finished filling the bucket with wild blackberries. She pulled her shawl tighter about her and glanced up at the steely sky. Huge black clouds were unfurling, and thunder boomed like Civil War cannons. The weather seemed much like her life—harsh and indifferent, even though her family was trying hard to live by God’s commandments. Sure, she sometimes argued with her older brother, Chase, or did her chores begrudgingly, but were those offenses worthy of all the misfortune that had befallen her family?
Lightning seared through the dark day, its crooked fingers of white clawing the heavy air. It had been lightning that burned down their prairie home just two years before.
Mackinzee and her family had been in church at the time. Why would God let such a thing happen while we were worshiping? she wondered now as she hurried back toward the sod house built in the face of the small hillock by a stand of cottonwoods. Was he punishing us for something, or had he somehow completely forgotten us?
She paused by a small grave under a scraggly willow and gazed at the little headstone:
Eric Waters
Born December 15, 1867
Died May 22, 1869
Her baby brother had passed away the year before, stung to death by a swarm of bees. Why? Why did God let it happen?
Distracted by the sound of someone’s knuckle tapping at a window, she glanced at the sod house. Papa was beckoning through the rain-smeared glass. He was lying in bed as he had been since being mauled three months ago by a grizzly that had wandered down from the timber. Doc Gunnerson had said that it would be another three months before Papa’s leg would be mended enough for him to go back to the fields. It had been a real struggle for Mama and fourteen-year-old Chase and herself to manage without him.
Mama met her at the door. “You’d best get out of those wet clothes, honey, before you catch your death.”
Mackinzee set the pot of berries down hard on the table. “Why should I expect anything different, Mama, after everything else that’s happened to us?” She turned abruptly and disappeared into a small adjoining room, the door closing behind her with a bang.
Chase looked up from a boot he was polishing with soot from the bottom of a stove lid, shook his head, and chuckled to himself. “She sounds more growly than a hungry bear.”
“She has been awful moody lately,” Papa admitted.
On Monday, Chase dragged the big black washtub into the yard and fetched water from a nearby stream. Mama heated water in a kettle on the stove, and Mackinzee carried it out and poured it into the tub until there was enough to do the laundry.
The washing took most of the day. Finally mother and daughter hung out the wet clothes on a rope stretched between two trees. As they did, Mama paused and glanced over at Mackinzee. A gentle breeze tugged at the young girl’s auburn hair that glowed in the sunlight like rusty gold. She was a pretty girl. “As pretty as a spring fawn,” Papa often commented, “with a gold-dust shine that could dazzle the hardest of hearts.”
But today that simple loveliness was overshadowed by lines of deep despair. This wasn’t the first time Mama had observed her daughter’s unhappiness. But whenever she had asked about it, Mackinzee always smiled and shrugged it off.
“What are you staring at, Mama?” Mackinzee asked, at the same moment realizing she had just given her mother an opportunity to enter her most guarded thoughts. Mackinzee was attempting a quick evasive smile when her mother stroked her cheek.
The gentle gesture broke the barrier that held back a sea of pent-up hurt and anger, and she broke into sobs.
Mama quickly pulled her close. “What’s the matter, honey,” she soothed. “What’s been tearing at you so?”
Papa pulled back a curtain by his bed and squinted out through the weather-streaked glass. “Do you know where your sister and your mama are, Chase? I saw them hanging out clothes about an hour ago. Now they’ve disappeared.”
Chase splashed water on his face and neck and rubbed them vigorously to get off as much sweat and field dirt as he could, then turned to his father. “When I came in from the field just now, I saw them sitting on the big log by the creek. They looked to be deep in talk.”
Papa gazed back out the window and nodded. “Good,” he said quietly. “Good.”
Out in the field, Mama put her comforting arm around Mackinzee. “I don’t expect there’s anything sadder than a body keeping a world of heartache to herself, honey, unless it’s thinking that she must.”
Mackinzee rubbed at a hot tear that oozed from a swollen eye. “I didn’t want to add to your or Papa’s worries by—”
Mama placed a gentle finger across her daughter’s lips. “Do you think your papa and I haven’t been concerned over not knowing what’s been troubling you? It’s a lot easier to puzzle out a problem once you have all the pieces before you on the table, right?” At Mackinzee’s slow, tentative nod, Mama continued, “And now let’s try to do that, shall we?”
Mackinzee agreed, but her first question almost caught in her throat. “Why does God allow bad things to happen to us? Is he punishing us?”
“Sometimes he allows misfortune to befall someone because of wrong choices. For every one of our actions, there is a consequence.”
Mackinzee’s eyes dropped. “Sometimes I haven’t done my chores with a good heart, Mama. And Chase and I get in arguments. Maybe Heavenly Father—”
Mama squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Shame on you for being normal,” she chuckled. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t believe that even bad experiences are wasted. Most can be for our profit and learning. It’s all in the way we accept them. And in how we deal with them.”
“Then you don’t think God has forgotten us?”
“If he counts every sparrow that falls, like the scriptures teach us, it’s a sure fact that he keeps track of the rest of us.” Mama’s eyes misted. “It’s in me to know that he keeps company with the afflicted,” she added with a granite conviction.
“Then why … ?”
Mama regarded her daughter with a look that was so profoundly reverent and alive with testimony that it made Mackinzee pause. “How do you suppose one would get to the top of that mountain over there?”
Mackinzee gazed off at the purple form that rose and fell at the bottom of the sky. “By climbing it, of course.”
“Yes. And always remember that heaven is up too. By climbing the mountains of adversity in our lives, we can develop our spiritual muscles. Doctrine and Covenants 136:31 [D&C 136:31] says that the Lord’s people ‘must be tried in all things, that they may be prepared to receive the glory that [he has] for them.’”
As Mackinzee thought about this, Mama reached down and picked up a shiny river rock. “We must learn to let the waves that beat upon our shores wash away the weaker parts and leave in its wake a stronger man or woman.” She stood and went over to a wild rose plant and plucked a blossom with its stem. “If rain can make the flowers grow, then why not the rest of us?” She ran a finger lightly across a large barb on the stem. “This thorn flower can teach us a valuable lesson, honey,” she counseled gently. “A rose without a thorn is only half a rose.”
A slow smile rippled across Mackinzee’s face. She would learn to be happy, even when it rained.
Mama pinched off the thorn with her thumbnail, then put the rose in Mackinzee’s hair. The girl stood and took her mother’s hand, and they started toward home.