Gospel Story Finder

After my experiences over the past few years, I think I understand what Paul might have felt. Like Paul, I now have a “thorn” that slows me, and like him I have prayed countless times for it to be taken away.
As I lay on the operating table, the surgeon’s voice broke through the fog of anesthesia, firm yet gentle: “Stacy, move your left arm. Now your left leg.” He repeated the request, but as my mind desperately sent signals to my body, nothing happened. My left side remained unresponsive, lifeless. In that moment, the fear that had loomed over me—of being paralyzed after brain surgery—became my reality. I remember thinking, “This is it; the risk I dreaded has come true.”
As I fully awakened, I told the surgeon I was trying to move, just as I had for the past 49 years. But my body, once so familiar, was now foreign and terrifying, refusing to obey.
Weeks in hospital rehabilitation turned into months, and months into years of grueling physical therapy. I needed help with nearly every movement. The sadness I felt during those years was overwhelming, far greater than anything I had ever experienced. It wasn’t just the physical weight of my new reality that crushed my spirit—it was the emotional toll. It was like I had been walking down a clear, well-worn path for nearly 50 years, only to find it suddenly overgrown with thick roots and towering trees. The way forward was obscured, and navigating it seemed impossible. Each day brought a new battle with sadness, fear, and anger as I fought to regain even a fraction of the physical ability I had once taken for granted.
Eighteen months after the surgery, my husband and I were invited to speak at a religious conference. The topic? “What accessing the grace of Jesus Christ daily looks like.” As we prepared, we immersed ourselves in studying Christ’s grace and how it operates in our lives. Grace, as defined in the Bible Dictionary, is “divine means of help or strength, given through the bounteous mercy and love of Jesus Christ.”
One week before the conference, I went on a bike ride with a friend. I rode my recumbent trike, which gives me the freedom to move, while she pedaled beside me on her bicycle. We talked as we rode, and as usual I cried. Sadness had become my constant companion, something the medical world might label as situational depression. I opened up to my friend about how lost I felt, about the overwhelming sadness that shadowed my days.
She asked me a question that has stayed with me ever since: “Stacy, what exactly are you sad about? What do you feel like you’ve lost?” I didn’t have an answer. I knew I was sad about my loss of movement, fearful that I would never regain my strength or the ability to do the things I once could. But the source of my sadness remained elusive.
A few days before the conference, the answer I had been searching for came to me, seemingly out of nowhere. I woke up in the middle of the night, a time when my anxious thoughts usually kept me company. But that night, a phrase echoed in my mind: “Graceful—full of grace.” As I drifted back to sleep, I thought to myself, “Yes, that’s a good point. Being graceful means being full of His grace. I’ll include that in my presentation.”
When I woke again in the morning, the same phrase was there, clear and insistent: “Graceful—full of grace.” I realized then that this message wasn’t just for the people at the conference—it was for me. That was the source of my sadness. That was what I had lost: my physical gracefulness.
As a young girl, I had been a ballerina, dancing through much of my adolescence and into college. I had never thought of myself as graceful, but years of training had ingrained in me a certain physical poise—a way of standing, moving, and balancing. Even after I stopped dancing, that grace remained. And now, in the quiet of those early morning hours, the Lord was redefining the word for me. I no longer needed the physical grace I once had. I had His grace to lean on in my moments of weakness. His grace was sufficient to help me smile, to shift my focus from my limitations to His strength.
Heaven’s message to me was clear: “You no longer need to rely on the physical grace you’ve learned. My strength is made perfect in your weakness.”
Graceful.
It’s a word I now carry with me, not as a reminder of what I’ve lost but of what I’ve gained. It’s not about my grace anymore—it’s about Christ’s grace, filling my heart and mind.
Graceful. It’s a word I now carry with me, not as a reminder of what I’ve lost but of what I’ve gained.
At the conference, I found myself in a room packed with people, needing to cross to the other side. There was no clear aisle, no easy path to navigate. As I stood up, I whispered to myself, “Graceful.” His grace, not mine. That simple word gave me the courage to move, to weave through the crowd without fear.
The more I let go of my old grace and embraced His, the easier life became. I found the strength to do what I could never do alone. His grace allowed me to see myself as a beloved daughter of God, to give my all, knowing He would fill in the gaps where I couldn’t. His grace brought gratitude even for my weaknesses.
I still wrestle with frustration and fear every day. My “thorn” hasn’t been removed. But now when those dark thoughts creep in, I have a powerful tool: the Savior’s grace. I repeat the word graceful to myself and move forward with Him. I don’t know when or how physical healing will come, but I trust that He knows, and that’s enough.
Like Paul, I am grateful for my infirmity because it has opened my eyes to see Him more clearly in my life. I place my trust in Him, and in return He gives me peace and joy and the assurance that He will deliver me.
The author lives in Utah.

One Sunday morning some 30 years ago, while I was serving in a stake presidency, we received a telephone call from one of our faithful bishops. He explained that his ward had grown so rapidly that he could no longer provide a meaningful calling to all worthy members. His plea to us was that we divide the ward. While waiting for such approval, we decided as a stake presidency that we would visit the ward and call all these wonderful, worthy brothers and sisters to be stake missionaries.

About the third person I visited was a young female student attending the local university. After chatting for a few moments, I issued the call to serve as a missionary. There was silence for a few moments. Then she said, “President, don’t you know that I am not active in the Church?”

After a few moments of silence on my part, I said, “No, I did not know you were not active.”

She answered, “I have not been active in the Church for years.” Then she said, “Don’t you know that when you have been inactive, it’s not all that easy to come back?”

I responded, “No. Your ward starts at 9:00 a.m. You come into the chapel, and you are with us.”

She answered, “No, it is not that easy. You worry about a lot of things. You worry if someone will greet you or if you will sit alone and unnoticed during the meetings. And you worry about whether you will be accepted and who your new friends will be.”

With tears rolling down her cheeks, she continued, “I know that my mother and father have been praying for me for years to bring me back into the Church.” Then after a moment of silence, she said, “For the last three months I have been praying to find the courage, the strength, and the way to come back into activity.” Then she asked, “President, do you suppose this calling could be an answer to those prayers?”

My eyes started to water as I responded, “I believe the Lord has answered your prayers.”

She not only accepted the call; she became a fine missionary. And I’m certain she brought much joy not only to herself but also to her parents and probably other family members.

All the family lifts weights together. Even Megan, the youngest, who is 12, can bench press a little more than she weighs. She blames her brothers for getting her started. And they blame their dad, Dan Brown, for getting them started.

“I was pretty skinny,” Denver says. “I asked my dad what I could do to start looking better and be healthier.” His dad had lifted weights in high school and picked it up again when his children became interested. Denver’s example got his brothers and cousins interested too.

“Denver was doing it, so I started,” says Navaar. “I found out I could break records, so I just went for it.” Navaar, who is 14, holds a national bench-press record for his age group.

The family is careful as they try to stay in shape. They don’t overdo it, and they eat healthily. “Our focus is more on health than on weight lifting,” Denver says.

Holding records in weight lifting is nice, but physical fitness is only part of being balanced. Kristopher, 16, says, “I wanted to be fit so I’d be better able to serve.” Kristopher and his brothers and sister who still live at home are eager to serve, whether it’s babysitting or just helping a friend.

Denver says service is not the only opportunity weight lifting has given him: “Anywhere you excel, people are going to notice, and that will give you missionary opportunities.” Recently at a national meet, a world-class power lifter asked Denver why he wasn’t coming to the next meet. Denver told him about his mission, and the power lifter surprised him by encouraging him to put God first. Denver later told his mother, Tammy, “I could be known as Denver the weight lifter, but I’d rather be known as Elder Brown in Mexico.”

The whole family puts a lot of effort into building their spiritual muscles. “You can’t just work out one day and expect to compete and do well,” says Sam. “Just like you can’t expect to come to church one day and then be ready to go on a mission. It takes time.”

“Weight lifting takes a lot of determination and eating well,” Jake explains. “With the gospel, you need spiritual food, and you need determination to stay with it, because it’s not always easy.”

All the boys have had instances where their physical strength was useless, and they were glad they could rely on the spiritual strength they had built up.

“When my dad had cancer, we weren’t really sure what was going to happen. We prayed a lot, and the Lord helped us through it,” Jake says.

“Prayer always helped,” agrees Sam. “That’s why we did it so much.”

Denver relied on the Lord when his best friend was killed in a car accident. “It took a lot of time and a lot of prayer. That was probably the time when I felt most reliant on Heavenly Father, rather than trying to take care of things for myself, because I felt helpless,” he says.

The whole family needed to rely on the Lord when their previous house burned down a year and a half ago. They’ve since moved to a new town and have made their new house into a home.

One of the family’s favorite scripture stories is of Ammon, a son of Mosiah, going to preach to the Lamanites (see Alma 17–20). Denver is not only impressed by Ammon’s physical strength in defeating those trying to steal the king’s sheep, but he is also impressed by his optimism. “There’s a possibility he’s going to get killed for letting the sheep get scattered, but he thinks, ‘Great! An opportunity!’”

Navaar likes the story of Ammon because even though Ammon was strong, he didn’t boast about his strength. He was still humble and trusted in the Lord. For Navaar, Ammon is an example of living a balanced life.

The Brown family keep striving to have balance in their lives and to support each other, through hard times and easier times. And they keep building up their reserves of spiritual strength because they know that no matter how strong they are physically, the only strength they can truly rely on is the Lord’s.

Brigham Young certainly had repeated opportunities to hold a steady course, particularly in those early and dif?cult years at the side of the Prophet Joseph Smith. While the First Presidency was away from Kirtland attempting to stabilize the dif?cult ?nancial circumstances they faced in the winter of 1836–37, a council was called by those who were opposed to Joseph Smith’s continuing in his office as prophet and president of the Church.

On this occasion [Brigham Young] “rose up . . . in a plain and forcible manner” and told them “that Joseph was a Prophet, and I knew it, and that they might rail and slander him as much as they pleased; they could not destroy the appointment of the Prophet of God, they could only destroy their own authority, cut the thread that bound them to the Prophet and to God, and sink themselves to hell.”

Some of those present reacted violently [toward Brigham]. One Jacob Bump . . . fancied himself a ­pugilist. While several held him back, he twisted and turned, shouting, “How can I keep my hands off that man?” “Lay them on,” responded Brigham, “if it will give you any relief!”

But the man didn’t lay them on. A few nights later Brigham heard a man running through the Kirtland streets at midnight shouting loudly and denouncing the Prophet Joseph. Even at that late hour Brigham jumped out of bed, went into the street and
jerked [the man] round, and assured him that if he did not stop his noise, and let the people enjoy their sleep . . . I would cowhide him on the spot, for we had the Lord’s Prophet right here, and we did not want the devil’s prophet yelling [up and down] the streets.

These were days of genuine “crisis,” he reported, “when earth and hell seemed leagued to overthrow the Prophet and the Church of God. The knees of many of the strongest men in the Church faltered.” But Brigham Young did not falter, yet before that year was over his own life was in jeopardy for such loyalty. On December 22 he said:

I had to leave to save my life. . . .
. . . I left Kirtland in consequence of the fury of the mob, and the spirit that prevailed in the apostates, who had threatened to destroy me because I would proclaim, publicly and privately, that I knew by the power of the Holy Ghost, that Joseph Smith was a Prophet of the Most High God.

Aioo Suisala just turned 19. He works to earn money for his mission. On Saturdays and during school vacations he works with Letane and Sosaia at nearby plantations with many of the other people from the village. They get to the fields either by walking or riding horses. At the plantations they weed the taro plants, fumigate, pick bananas, and check how the pineapples are ripening.
On Sundays Aioo, who is assistant ward clerk, Sosaia, and Letane attend Church meetings and take care of their responsibilities in the ward. Their chapel is less than ten years old, and the local Saints helped to build it. Aioo and Sosaia both remember working on it.
Aioo stands in stake conference in Pesega as he is sustained to be ordained to the Melchizedek Priesthood. He has been looking forward to and preparing for this day for a long time because it means that he is almost ready to go on his mission.

Annette swung her blue vinyl scripture carrier back and forth as she ran down the sidewalk and leaped up the steps of the church. Even though she couldn’t read yet, she had wanted her own scriptures, and today she was bringing them to Primary for the first time. “Look, Sister Harris! Look what I got for my birthday!” she said excitedly, waving her scriptures.
“That’s great! We’ll be using them in Sharing Time today,” Sister Harris said, smiling.
Annette watched curiously as Sister Harris carried a big blue dishpan of water, some building blocks, and various other things into the classroom. Annette couldn’t wait for Primary to begin.
“Today,” said Sister Harris, “we are going to learn about some Book of Mormon people called the Jaredites. They lived in a place called Babel. Wicked people there thought that they could get to heaven by building a high tower instead of by keeping the commandments.”
Sister Harris placed a red block on a green one, then added blue and yellow ones to make a tower. “Heavenly Father was angry with what they were doing,” she said, “so He made it so that the people couldn’t understand each other. Voulez-vous m’aider?” she asked, motioning toward the blocks and looking around the room. “Personne ne me comprend?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
All the children giggled. “What are you saying?” Annette asked.
“I was asking if anyone would like to help me build the tower. You couldn’t understand me because I was speaking French,” Sister Harris explained. “That’s like it was in Babel. The people couldn’t understand each other, so they stopped building the tower. The Jaredite family was righteous, though, and Heavenly Father allowed them to keep their language. He told them that He would lead them across the ocean to a promised land.”
Sister Harris picked up a round plastic container with a snap-on lid. It was painted brown to look like a boat.
“The Lord told the brother of Jared exactly how to build eight barges. Each barge, which is a kind of boat, was built to be strong and tight—like this container—and each had a closable hole in the top and bottom so that whichever hole was out of the water could be opened.”
Sister Harris put the container in the pan of water and pushed it under to make big waves go over its top.
Annette looked puzzled. “But how did they see when it was dark?” she asked.
“Good question, Annette,” replied Sister Harris. “They didn’t have electricity like we do, so the Lord told the brother of Jared to think of a plan. The brother of Jared prepared sixteen small clear stones, one for each end of each barge.”
Sister Harris counted to sixteen as she took some tiny rocks out of a box. “The brother of Jared asked the Lord to touch the stones with His finger so that they could give off light. He did as He was asked, and the Jaredites were able to travel safely to the promised land.” She swished her hand in the water until the container reached the other side of the pan, then dried her hands on a towel and picked up her scriptures. “The story about the Jaredites is in the book of Ether, near the end of the Book of Mormon.”
Annette’s teacher helped her carefully turn the pages of her new scriptures till she found the right place. “Now,” she said, “to help you always find the story of the Jaredites, draw a picture of a barge right in your scriptures. Then your mom and dad can read it to you.”
Annette chose several of Sister Harris’s colored pencils. She drew a purple boat, squiggly blue lines for water, and two tiny yellow circles inside the boat for the stones of light. Then she drew a finger so that she would remember that the Lord had touched the stones.
After Primary, Annette hurried to the Relief Society room to find her mother. “Look, Mom,” she said, opening her Book of Mormon right to the picture she had drawn. “I can find the story of the Jaredites all by myself now! Will you read it to me right after dinner, please?”

Now a caution: Sometimes, we do not understand why the Lord is asking us to do what we are doing. The Lord’s ways are not our ways, so you really need to think, pray, and learn by faith. We need to be on the Lord’s errand and learn along the way. An example: The Lord came to a man and asked him to push against a big rock. Being obedient, he put on his clothes went out and started pushing. He pushed and pushed, but the rock was not moving. After many days, Satan came and suggested he stop. He had been working and sweating long enough, and the rock was not moving. The man agreed and sat down; that rock was simply too big to move. The Lord came by and asked him why he was sitting. The man explained that he tried as hard as he could, but the rock just would not move to which the Lord said, “I did not ask you to move the rock, I asked you to push against the rock. Look, you have lost some of that extra weight, your muscles are getting stronger, and you are out here in the fresh air and are healthier. Push against the rock, and when it is time to move the rock, I will come and help you.” He will help us with our big heavy rocks in His time, but you know what happens once that rock is moved? We have learned, we have progressed, and we get to push against an even bigger rock.

Born and raised on Maui and a graduate of the Kamehameha Schools in Honolulu, Ethel attended BYU in Provo from 1950 to 1954. While there, she lived with roommates from Hawaii, danced hula with the BYU Hawaiian club, and earned a bachelor’s degree in education.

She was one of five children and the first in her family to graduate from college. One of her brothers, Kala Whitford, was father to the late Joe Whitford, husband to our current head of registrars Daryl Whitford. Joe taught History classes here at BYU–Hawaii in the 2000s.

Ethel found friendship with fellow classmates from Hawaii, enjoyed interacting with others and sharing her culture when possible. Although her experiences in Provo were mostly positive, she experienced the uncertainty of racial segregation firsthand while on a trip to Washington D.C. I mention this experience to help contextualize the time period but to also accentuate the value of a multi-cultural college in Laie for native islanders like Ethel. She explained,

“The August before my senior year, I took two weeks off from my job in the Registrar's Office and caught the train (the California Zephyr) in Provo and rode for two days and two nights to finally arrive in Alexandria, Virginia. I changed trains in Chicago and Washington D.C. Upon alighting from the train in Alexandria, there were signs that read, "Whites Only" and "Blacks Only." That was a shocker and I deliberated just for a second and walked through the door that was labeled Whites Only! No-one stopped me so I walked on outside, hailed a cab, and went to Naomi's apartment.”

In 1973, my husband and I sat calmly listening to a Church speaker describe how disfellowshipments and excommunications had increased in recent years within the Church. As I shook my head sadly, feeling secure in my temple marriage, testimony, and Church activity, I hadn’t the least notion at that time of how my future would be devastatingly affected by this process.
My life was drastically altered some seven years later when my husband, an active Melchizedek Priesthood holder, returned missionary, former bishopric member, and father to our six children, was called before a Church court and disfellowshipped.
I felt rejected, betrayed, and frightened that this could happen to me. As I poured out my soul to the Lord, searching for answers, I learned eternal truths that helped me through this heartrending experience. In a way only he could do, the Lord has mercifully stood me back on my feet, both emotionally and spiritually.
I’m convinced my anguish couldn’t have been more intense had I been the one disciplined in court. I had tried long and hard to do all the Lord asked of me. I’d married a wonderful young man who glowed with a testimony of the gospel, and I now felt betrayed. He had changed, and I had no control over the situation. I wept for our young son approaching Aaronic Priesthood age and wondered how we could explain that his father could not confer this precious priesthood on him. Another son would be baptized in a short time. Again we would have to search for an explanation. I was afraid to face family, friends, and ward members. Although I’d done my best to assure myself and my children of happiness, it seemed as though I were living in a nightmare.
Finding a way to deal with grief and disappointment developed into a full-time job. Needing someone to talk to, I turned to the Lord for help and comfort. He became my loving counselor.
Several years earlier, at the death of our infant son, I had blamed myself for the loss. An understanding doctor wisely counseled that this was common, but nonetheless wrong. A grieving person naturally searches for something he might have done to prevent tragedy. “Don’t give in to the temptation to blame yourself,” he advised.
Following the Church court, I found myself falling into this trap again. Gradually I realized I could neither control nor take responsibility for my husband’s actions. I began to concentrate on the things I could control and change in myself.
At the same time I tried to accept not only my situation, but my husband as well. I learned that comparing our spiritual progress to that of other couples was useless. When I read about exemplary fathers and husbands, I still struggled with discouragement. Yet I was able to tell myself, “Their situations are different. The Lord will help me with mine.” As I expressed gratitude for blessings I did have, a loving acceptance grew within me. Along with it, the attitude in our entire family improved. To my amazement, I discovered times when I was happier and more at peace than I’d been in years.
Sometimes I hesitated asking for certain blessings, fearing that my husband’s situation might prevent our receiving them. The Lord quickly dismissed my apprehension, however, and over the years presented us with material and spiritual blessings.
My self-esteem had been shattered by our experience with the disfellowshipment. I was busy many hours each week, serving as president of one of the ward auxiliaries. How could the Lord, or for that matter, the bishop, possibly expect me to continue in this calling? Emotionally and physically, I was drained. But nothing was mentioned concerning my release, and I stayed in that position. I later understood this to be the Lord’s way of demonstrating a need for my abilities. At the same time, our children continued to do well in and out of school. Here the Lord was assuring me that we weren’t failing as parents. These experiences lifted me and convinced me of my worth.
As the weeks, months, and years went by, the pain sometimes grew less and sometimes grew stronger. I got used to most people avoiding the issue in conversation. Few got past the fear of not knowing what to say, and so said nothing. I’ll always appreciate the friend who sincerely asked, “How are things going?” and listened patiently as I told her.
The Lord continued to comfort and teach me. Often I complained about my husband’s unwillingness to change. Without exception, Heavenly Father refused to accept my criticism. Through inspiration he referred me, in a loving way, to scriptures on tolerance. He also reminded me of my special role as a wife. I was convinced that parts of Doctrine and Covenants 25, where the Lord calls Emma Smith to aid and comfort her husband, applied as much to me as to Emma. Over and over I read this section, each time believing more in my husband’s worth.
I prayed regularly for an increase in love toward my husband. The Lord answered in unusual, but practical ways. I sought opportunities to give of myself, knowing those we serve become those we love. I didn’t have to look far, as my husband was hurt in three minor accidents within a year. During his short convalescent periods at home I provided emotional care and concern. I was rewarded many times over with greater love and appreciation for him.
I realized, too, that my service didn’t need to be a huge undertaking. Since my husband was away from home much of the time, I tried to make him the center of my attention when he was at home. Saying something positive or complimentary to him each day grew from a challenge into a habit. I also refrained from criticizing my husband, either to him or anyone else. These small efforts worked wonders. Like a dying plant rediscovering light and nourishment, our love regained vitality.
I drew great comfort and hope from the twenty-seventh chapter of Mosiah. Here an angel appears to Alma the Younger because of the faith and prayers of his father. (See Mosiah 27:8–17.) Through this scripture the Lord assured me that he answers prayers said in behalf of others. I have made it a point to never cease praying for my husband. More difficult, but just as important, is maintaining faith that one day his heart will change.
Charity, I’ve also discovered, is a gift from God. Shortly after the Church court, I was suddenly consumed with a deep affection and acceptance for my husband. I longed to help and support him in every possible way. This sweet sensation stayed long enough for me to realize that I wanted it always. I pray regularly, as Moroni suggested, “with all the energy of heart [to] be filled with this love.” (Moro. 7:48.)
My husband has now been reinstated into the Church. Though many changes for good have come, his gospel commitment and spiritual desire for activity have yet to return. I’ve accepted the fact, however, that only he can control those things. Instead of focusing on our failures, I can now express gratitude for the things we’re doing right. I’ve discovered, to my surprise, that it’s possible to be happy in any situation. I’ve also learned that through the most painful experience of my life has come my greatest growth.
Editor’s note: At the author’s request, her name has been withheld.

Habits are hard to break, but one must first recognize the bad habit. A friend is the best help, next to oneself, in alleviating such a problem. Once you have gotten a person to recognize his problem, promise to help him overcome it. While in navy bootcamp I had this habit myself. Here is my solution: I asked a friend to catch me every time I said something wrong and correct me. I soon caught myself, and with a little extra effort, I overcame the problem. It took some effort though.
Frederick M. Beall, U.S.N.N.A.S. Imperial Beach, California

“What’s a testimony?” I asked my mom one Sunday as we were getting ready for church. I knew that it was fast Sunday, that people would be “bearing their testimonies,” and I wasn’t sure what a testimony was.
My sister, Diana, hurried by, and Mom asked her, “What do you think a testimony is, Diana?”
“I think it’s when the Holy Ghost tells you something is true,” she said. “We’ve been studying about Jesus Christ in seminary. I have a testimony that He loves me and that He died for me. It’s a good feeling inside to know that He will help me when I have problems.”
“We can have a testimony of many things, Bryan,” Mom said. “Bearing a testimony means you tell how you know a gospel principle is true.
“I have an idea,” she added later, as we were going into the chapel. “Why don’t you write down all the things that the people bear testimony of in sacrament meeting today?”
“I can help you spell the people’s names,” Dad said. “Pretend that you are a secretary or reporter. It will help you learn what a testimony is.”
After the sacrament, Dad handed me a piece of paper and a pencil. At the top he had written, “Name, Testimony,” and he had drawn a big line underneath. I felt like a news reporter as I wrote down everything.
Brother Nielson talked about how his prayers had been answered that week, and I wrote “prayers answered” beside his name.
Brother Brown, who must be the oldest person in our ward, bore his testimony next. He told how a priesthood blessing had saved his sister’s life. Dad showed me how to spell priesthood. I know that when I have a sick stomach or a really sore throat and Dad gives me a blessing, I feel better immediately. Sometimes my stomach or throat still hurts, but I feel better. It’s like the feeling I have when I have a bad dream and Mom comes and holds me and tells me about Jesus. After she does this, the bad feeling goes away and I feel sleepy again. I think I have a testimony of priesthood blessings, just like Brother Brown.
Sister Hatty cried when she bore her testimony about how glad she was that families can be together forever. Dad whispered to me that her father had died the week before. I couldn’t think what to write down as her testimony, so Dad spelled out resurrection for me.
As I wrote the names and topics, a strange feeling began to grow in me. “Dad,” I whispered, “How old do you have to be to bear a testimony?”
“You can bear your testimony when you’re old enough to have a testimony.”
“Can someone my age bear his testimony?” I whispered.
“If a person is old enough to know what a testimony is,” Dad whispered back, “he can bear it. Children know things are true, just like grown-ups.”
When Craig bore his testimony, the funny feeling inside me grew bigger. Craig was still in elementary school, like me. He said that he was glad that his older brother, Aaron, was serving a mission. Craig said that he wanted to go on a mission, too, when he got older. I wrote “mission” by his name and thought how wonderful it would be to be a missionary like Aaron. Craig said that missionaries bear their testimonies all the time.
It was then that I decided that I wanted to bear my testimony. I wasn’t old enough to be a missionary, but I could tell what I believed in. Dad smiled and gave me a hug when I whispered what I was going to do.
When Sister Morris sat down, I took a deep breath and started walking to the front of the chapel. I felt really scared, and I wished I could run back to my seat. But the feeling that I wanted to bear my testimony kept me moving toward the front.
“I love Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ,” I said shakily and very loudly. I paused and I felt better. “I like to read the Book of Mormon. I get a good feeling when I read it, even when I don’t understand all of it. I like to pray. I know Heavenly Father answers my prayers.” The wonderful feeling had spread all over me, and I felt warm and safe, like when I am wrapped in Dad’s strong arms.
I felt really good when I finished my testimony, and I quickly walked back to Mom and Dad. Diana gave me a big hug as I squeezed by her. I whispered to her, “A testimony is a really good feeling that makes you happy inside, Diana, just like you said.” Then I added, “Bearing your testimony makes the good feeling inside feel even better.”

One August I went to the Salt Lake Temple with my father and stepmother after spending a long summer in Oregon. I had been looking forward to the visit because I had been feeling overwhelmed about going back to school. I wasn’t sure if I could meet all of the requirements of my upcoming junior year.
While my parents went in to participate in an endowment session, I went to do baptisms. Going to the temple had always been a spiritual experience for me, but that day I didn’t feel the Spirit, which increased my lonely feelings. I decided to say a prayer.
In my prayer, I admitted I didn’t know how to feel better but asked for a chance to help someone else. When I opened my eyes, there was a girl my age by herself who appeared to be confused. When I asked if she needed some help, she said it was her first time in the Salt Lake Temple and didn’t know where to go. As I helped her find her way around the temple, we enjoyed our time together doing baptisms. I know helping her was the answer to my prayer.

Levi describes being at end of his first semester of law school when he was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. He was too afraid to speak in class, in church, or even on the phone. In law school, professors commonly pick on one student and spend the entire class period drilling that student on what he is supposed to know, and often, the finals are oral exams. Levi just couldn’t go on. But with the help of his law school advisor, he withdrew from school for a year to receive professional help and to force himself to find jobs that would help him such as working at a phone center calling people and to participate in church by volunteering to read a scripture. Levi is back in law school, and he writes: “The Lord really does watch out for us. I am so aware of heavenly help in my life right now. I feel like I am being lifted up and carried through some days. For example, today I was called on in one of my classes. I started out all right and then got very nervous and just felt shaky and awful. When I was finished “being on the hook” as we law students say, I just shook it right off. I didn’t hardly even give it a second thought, and I went on and had a productive day. I am learning to do this regularly and am able to do it because I ask the Lord if my performance is acceptable to Him. The answer I am always getting is yes. I am doing things that I once doubted that I could do.”

Miguel liked to help Mama in the garden. He covered the tiny seeds with dirt. He gave them some water. But not too much.
“You are doing a good job,” Mama said. “Soon we will have lots of good things to eat.”
Miguel smiled. He was happy to help.
In a few days, small sprouts poked through the dirt. Miguel watered the plants. He pulled weeds that grew next to them. Each day the plants grew a little taller.
One day, he saw a worm. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to hurt it. But would it hurt the plants? His family got most of their food from the garden.
“Mama, look!” He pointed to the worm. It wiggled in the dirt. “Will it hurt the plants?”
She shook her head no and smiled. “Worms are good for the garden.”
Miguel watched the worm dig into the ground. “It’s making holes in the dirt!” he said.
“That’s what it’s supposed to do. It’s breaking up the dirt so the roots can grow strong. It’s one of Heavenly Father’s creatures. It has its own special purpose.” Mama kissed Miguel on the top of his head. “Just like you do.”
Miguel dug around the plants. He was careful not to hurt the worm. He saw other worms. He smiled as they dug their tunnels.
Miguel liked the worms. He wanted to treat all of Heavenly Father’s creatures with respect.

Anisberto meant to be careful cutting the sugarcane, but somehow his big machete slipped. When the Perez family saw their nine-year-old son’s wound, they were frightened and took him to the missionaries for help.
The tip of Anisberto’s finger was almost cut off, and Elder McClellan and his companion struggled for more than three hours before they could stop the bleeding. The missionaries knew that Anisberto needed a doctor, but there was no medical help on the small island in the Caribbean Sea.
At first, flying to the mainland seemed a frightening experience to Anisberto. But when Elder McClellan said he would go too, the boy was no longer afraid.
Early the next morning a dugout canoe took the Indian boy and his missionary friend to meet the plane. Before leaving the island, they offered a special prayer and asked our Father in heaven to protect them as they traveled.
The plane was crowded when it arrived on the island, so Elder McClellan held Anisberto on his lap.
The sandy landing strip was soft from the night’s rain, making it difficult to reach takeoff speed. At the end of the runway the pilot lifted the plane sharply, but the slow speed dragged it back down. Windows shattered as the aircraft crashed into the ocean!
A wing near Anisberto collapsed. Water, broken glass, and panic filled the cabin as Anisberto wiggled free from the seat belt and swam out the opposite side. Elder McClellan was forced underwater, but finally he too was able to swim out through a broken window. He found Anisberto treading water.
Sensing that the plane could not stay afloat much longer, Elder McClellan took hold of Anisberto and started to swim back to the island, calling to the other passengers to follow. Just as the plane sunk out of sight, boats arrived and picked up the tired swimmers. Soon everyone was safely back on shore.
Anisberto’s family greeted the two travelers calmly. “We knew the Lord would save you,” they explained.
They also knew Anisberto still needed to see a doctor. So a boat was found and hours later, after a chilly ride, the elder and the boy reached the mainland, where a doctor treated the wound.
Afterward Anisberto wondered about flying back to the island. He kept his courage, however, and agreed to fly if Elder McClellan was with him. The trip home was without accident.
Before long Anisberto was taken back to the mainland hospital, because the doctor found that his finger was not healing. A few days later Elder McClellan was also hospitalized with bronchial pneumonia. Now the two friends were together again and together they became well.
Anisberto’s experience showed him and his family that our Heavenly Father loves His children everywhere in the world.
Remembering his Indian friend, Elder McClellan says, “I still marvel at the courage and trust of young Anisberto.”

During World War II, in the early part of 1944, an experience involving the priesthood took place as United States marines were taking Kwajalein Atoll, part of the Marshall Islands and located in the Pacific Ocean about midway between Australia and Hawaii. What took place in this regard was related by a correspondent—not a member of the Church—who worked for a newspaper in Hawaii. In the 1944 newspaper article he wrote following the experience, he explained that he and other correspondents were in the second wave behind the marines at Kwajalein Atoll. As they advanced, they noticed a young marine floating facedown in the water, obviously badly wounded. The shallow water around him was red with his blood. And then they noticed another marine moving toward his wounded comrade. The second marine was also wounded, with his left arm hanging helplessly by his side. He lifted up the head of the one who was floating in the water in order to keep him from drowning. In a panicky voice he called for help. The correspondents looked again at the boy he was supporting and called back, “Son, there is nothing we can do for this boy.”

“Then,” wrote the correspondent, “I saw something that I had never seen before.” This boy, badly wounded himself, made his way to the shore with the seemingly lifeless body of his fellow marine. He “put the head of his companion on his knee. … What a picture that was—these two mortally wounded boys—both … clean, wonderful-looking young men, even in their distressing situation. And the one boy bowed his head over the other and said, ‘I command you, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the priesthood, to remain alive until I can get medical help.’” The correspondent concluded his article: “The three of us [the two marines and I] are here in the hospital. The doctors don’t know [how they made it alive], but I know.”11

The youngest of 12 children, Karina likes being part of a big family. Since most of her brothers and sisters are much older than she is, Karina is especially close to her brother Germán, who is 12 years old. Germán says of Karina, “I like her because she is happy and fun.”
Germán always looks out for her. But Karina herself looks out for and takes special care of her two-year-old niece Ruth. She loves Ruth and lets her cling to her sweater sleeve when they are together. Karina walks slowly so Ruth can keep up with her, and she tries to make sure others notice and pay attention to Ruth.

I grew up as a serious, responsible person who followed the principles that my parents, with their limited religious knowledge, taught me. However, after my father died in 2005, when I was 15, I became someone different. Maybe it was a way of expressing my pain for not having said good-bye to him. I will always regret not giving him a kiss before he went to the hospital.
After his death I started hanging around people who didn’t have good values. I was doing things I thought were OK and that everyone was doing, but I now understand they weren’t pleasing to the Lord. I was having fun, according to the world’s standard of fun, but in reality I wasn’t happy. I was empty and missing something, but I didn’t know what. I started doing poorly in school. The worst part was that I had no idea how to find happiness in my life. At the time I didn’t see how much I was missing out on with my family and my mom, who is the person I love most.
At night I would pray to God. No one had taught me how to pray, but I felt like He was listening. I asked Him to help me be happy and to let me know if my dad was OK. I was so afraid that he was suffering somewhere. My pleas went on for many nights.
The answer finally came. I thought I would receive an answer in a dream, but instead it came in the form of two elders. They came to our house in December 2006. I didn’t understand that they were an answer to my prayers, and I didn’t want to listen to even one discussion. My mom listened and decided to go to church. She hasn’t stopped going since. She was baptized, and a few weeks later my nephews and my sister were baptized. I noticed a huge change in my mom after her baptism, to the point that she seemed much younger and happier. Her happiness and peace filled our house immensely; the minute someone came in he or she could feel that something was different.
I realized what had happened and decided to go to church. It was a strange experience; I had never been treated so kindly before. The sisters were friendly and treated me so well that I felt very comfortable at church. Little by little I was convinced the Church was true, and I decided to listen to the lessons from the elders.
I was baptized on February 3, 2007, in the Uribe Ward, Veracruz Mexico Stake, by two amazing elders. I will always remember them, and I consider them our angels. My baptism is a day I’ll never forget. I was clean from all sin. My mistakes had been erased because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. I left my depression behind, and the void I had felt was no longer there. It was replaced by tremendous joy in my soul.
The true gospel has brought my family and me so much happiness. I’ve found eternal friends. I continue to battle against the world, but now I have the true gospel and the Spirit that give me joy and peace daily. Now I know the answer to the question I was asking the Lord for so long. If my dad accepted the ordinances we did for him in the temple, I know he’s happy and at peace. I believe he accepted the gospel and is waiting for us.
Sometimes I look back and realize how much I’ve been blessed. I see there is a greater happiness than that offered by the world and its pleasures and distractions. True happiness comes from the gospel of Jesus Christ. Everything that the gospel teaches is for our good.

When I was camping with my dad, we shared a moment I’ll never forget. We hiked up the side of a mountain late one night and found a spot to sit together. As we looked across the night sky, we were surrounded by the most brilliant stars I’d ever seen. We sat together for a long time, naming planets and constellations one by one.
Looking out at the universe in front of me, I felt pretty small and unimportant. I couldn’t even imagine how many other planets are out there—“worlds without end,” right? What was I compared to all that?
I asked my dad if there was other life out there in the universe, already feeling overwhelmed at the thought. He must have read my thoughts, because he simply said: “Here’s what I know. Heavenly Father has a lot of creations, as you can see. But of all His creations, He loves you individually.
“He sees everything you go through and wants more than anything to be a part of your life. He wants to bring you joy and help you get back to live with Him forever.”
I still felt small under the huge night sky, but I believed my dad’s testimony. I mattered to Heavenly Father. And He wanted to be in my life.

In August 2024, I was selected to participate in a research exchange program at Sciences Po University in Paris, France. Although I was excited about this remarkable opportunity, I dreaded the thought of leaving my family for eight long months. After counseling together as a family, we prayerfully decided that I should accept the offer.
While in Paris, I was actively involved in academic research, Church activities, and temple worship. Paris is a beautiful city, rich in culture, full of educational and professional opportunities, known for its delicious food, stunning architecture, and pleasant weather. Yet, in the midst of all this, I felt something was missing. I missed my family deeply. I remember telling my husband during one of our phone conversations that if I ever make it to the celestial kingdom alone, I will not be happy.
That thought has stayed with me. The celestial kingdom is indeed the most glorious of all kingdoms, but without one’s family, even eternal life would feel incomplete. My time in France taught me, through experience, that family is everything. Nothing compares to it.
I came to better understand the importance of family history and temple work. This sacred work is not merely about gathering names; it is about gathering people, our family, those we love and hope to be with forever.