Gospel Story Finder

One sister shared that she and her husband had often attended a weekly game night with friends in her ward. After the divorce, she was saddened when the invitations to game night stopped coming because it was only couples who had attended. Another sister shared that many ward members assumed that because she was now a single mother, she wouldn’t have time to attend activities with friends like she did before; therefore, they didn’t invite her so that she wouldn’t feel sad in not being able to come. However, this simply left her feeling more isolated and alone. This sister shared that it would have felt nice to simply continue to be invited (even if she couldn’t join)—to know that others wanted her there.

Illustrations by Scott Greer
Dani looked up but still couldn’t see the top of the beautiful cathedral. People who belonged to a different church came here. Dani didn’t understand why her family was visiting this church on a Friday, but Dad said they were going to something called Evensong.
“What’s that?” Dani asked.
“It’s a meeting where people sing, read scriptures, and pray together,” Dad said. “Like a big family at the end of the day.”
Dani liked how that sounded. She and her family were visiting England. Last Sunday they went to a ward in a city called York. In Primary all the kids knew the same scriptures and songs Dani did. She knew the ward she visited was part of Jesus’s true Church, just like her ward at home.
But this cathedral was very different from what she was used to. She noticed a small table filled with candles. Dani watched a boy light a candle.
“Why are you lighting candles?” Dani asked him.
The boy smiled. “I light a candle when I pray for special things. As long as the flame burns, I hope the prayer will continue to be heard by God.”
They looked like regular candles to Dani. She was a little confused, but she wanted to be polite. She smiled at the boy.
Dani and her family sat down, and soon Evensong started. She saw the same boy a few rows away. Then she realized she didn’t know any of the songs everyone was singing. When they prayed, they read out of a little book. Everything seemed different than what she was used to.
But the music was beautiful, even if it wasn’t familiar. Then a man got up to read the scriptures. He was wearing robes, instead of a suit and tie like Dani’s bishop. But as he started reading, Dani realized she knew this story! He was reading about Jesus healing the 10 lepers.
“Dad,” Dani whispered, “I love this story.”
Dad smiled. “Me too.”
Then the man in robes said a prayer. He asked God to bless those who were sick and in need. Just like Dani did! He also asked a special blessing on leaders of his church. Dani remembered how her family always asked Heavenly Father to bless President Thomas S. Monson and his counselors.
A warm feeling came into Dani’s heart. She knew Heavenly Father was telling her He loved all His children and heard all their prayers, even if they went to a different church and didn’t have the fulness of the gospel.
As they got up to leave, Dad checked his phone. He looked sad as he read his messages. “Sister Monson passed away,” he said.
“Oh no!” Dani said a quick prayer in her heart that President Monson would be OK.
“Are you all right?” someone asked. It was the boy from before. He had heard Dani, and he seemed worried.
“Sister Monson passed away,” Dani said. “She was the wife of our prophet, President Monson.”
“I’m sorry,” he said kindly. “I’ll light a candle for him.”
Dani smiled and thanked him. She thought it was nice of the boy to say a special prayer for President Monson. She knew Heavenly Father would hear the prayer she said in her heart and the prayer the boy said too.

The first things I noticed among the hustling paramedics and the wailing sirens that cold January morning in Utah were Esther’s hands. Her long, strong fingers, which had always been so busy serving others, were now cramped and motionless. My own hands reached out to warm hers, and her closed eyes fluttered open briefly. She looked around as though to identify who was near her.
“It’s okay, Esther,” I said, trying to comfort her as I straightened her nightgown and covered her with a blanket. “The doctors will find out what has happened to you.” I felt Esther relax; then we were both swept into the ambulance and rushed to the nearby hospital.
To say Esther was only a neighbor is like describing the sun as only a source of light. Esther’s hands had reached out to me when I was a teenager and had led me to the treasures in my junior high school library. For more than 40 years, her hands had dispensed knowledge and service throughout the neighborhood. She had hired and patiently taught many young people how to prune and care for her orchards, how to improve the neighborhood, and how to love their neighbors. She had reached out to old and new alike, and her hands had sewn the fabric of our block into a quilt of friendship that spread far beyond its physical boundaries.
All that busy winter, I had yearned to help someone. But I knew it was a futile desire. I was working full time in a very stressful job, and I was the harried mother of five very involved and very busy children, ages 5 to 25, including two who were getting married within weeks of each other. My family, work, Church and community responsibilities had strained my capacity to do more than survive each day. But something in the depths of my being kept calling out, wanting to help someone in some way.
Many mornings, as I checked off my accomplishments of the previous day and plotted my strategy for meeting the struggles of the dawning one, I had recalled the Lord’s admonition to “not run faster or labor more than you have strength,” (see D&C 10:4), and I had thought, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll find time to take dinner to someone or to take flowers to a sick friend.”
Service, to me, was a physical object one presented as a gift: it was homemade candy or doughnuts at Christmas, freshly baked bread for a new neighbor, or outgrown clothes for needy families. Now, as I sat at Esther’s bedside on a cold wintry day, Esther taught me that service was something else.
“Esther, squeeze my hand,” the doctor coaxed. “Come on, Esther, you can squeeze my hand.”
“I’m trying,” Esther answered, but her words collapsed into themselves, and her voice trailed off. The doctor shook his head, slipping his hand from Esther’s unmoving one.
“Esther, they are going to move you to another room now,” I explained as they wheeled her bed out of the emergency room. “It’s going to be all right.” Her frightened eyes searched mine for reassurance and then closed in peace.
Surprisingly, despite my fear for Esther, I felt an unusual sense of peace. For once in my harried, over-full life, I knew that I was where I was supposed to be. I wasn’t worried about my list of Saturday chores. I wasn’t concerned about my family. They knew I was with Esther, and their prayers were with me in that cramped, bare cubicle.
Morning edged into afternoon. I called Esther’s family in another state and told them of the situation. I served as a link between the hospital, Esther, and her family members, who were trying to cope with this emergency. And I talked to Esther.
As I sat by Esther, I watched storm clouds gather and snow begin to fall. My thoughts went back 35 years to when my grandmother had had her final stroke. Others had been frightened of the silent stranger who inhabited my grandmother’s frail body, but my mother had told us to hold her hand, to stroke it, and to talk to her.
“I think she can hear you, even if she can’t communicate,” my mother had said. “She needs to hear and feel your love. Talk to her, touch her, and let her know you love her.”
I hadn’t thought of my mother’s words for many years, but they came back as I talked to Esther, stroked her immobile hands, and filled the tiny room with my whispered prayers.
Too soon the room was crowded with Esther’s family, and I eased out of their way as they gathered around her. When they reached out to caress her still hands, stroke her hair, and talk to her, the urgent need that had held me captive all morning disappeared.
“She’s slipped into a deep coma,” the nurse explained to Esther’s loved ones. “Earlier she was trying to communicate, but now she’s unconscious and unaware.”
I stood at the doorway and took one last look at Esther’s inert hands. They were more relaxed now, but they remained open and reaching out to others. I dashed tears of appreciation from my eyes and thanked Esther for her last gift to me.

Before we knew it, it was 2012. Teni and I had grown even closer and were deeply in love—it is an amazing feeling, being married to my best friend—but something significant was missing. For six years, I just couldn’t fall pregnant. I began to think I might forever be an aunt, but never a mum.
We felt so incomplete.
One evening, we received a phone call which would change our lives! There was news of an unborn baby boy and an expectant mother determined to find a good family for him.
On the night that Kahn Ui was born, his birth mother—tears streaming down her face—delicately placed him in my arms and whispered, “He’s yours now. Thank you for loving him as much as I do.”
Alert and curious, baby Kahn looked up at me, completely unaware of the miracle that had just taken place. He fit perfectly in my arms, and it is with that same ease and sense of familiarity that he also fit into our family.
My husband and I entered the wonderful world of parenthood together. We took turns feeding our baby throughout the night; we talked to him, sung to him, and shed tears of immeasurable joy as we got to know him.
We realised a profound truth in those early days. As much as Kahn needed us, we—his new parents—needed the Lord more than ever. We prayed for His guidance as we learned our new roles.

Photograph courtesy of the author (right, with Sister Lim on the left)
Recently some missionaries in JeonJu Korea Stake and I made a flower garden at the entrance to my apartment. One morning before I went to my garden, I asked Heavenly Father to bless me to use the garden to make a new friend who was prepared to hear the gospel. That day while I was working in the garden, a woman approached.
“I’m looking for the church that is above a nearby supermarket,” she said. “Do you know where I can find it?”
“I don’t know that church,” I replied.
She went on her way but returned 30 minutes later.
“I’ve heard that there is a church here somewhere,” she said. “I moved to my apartment a few days ago, and I’m looking for a church to attend.”
At that moment, it struck me. She was the answer to my prayer. I learned that she had moved to the same floor of the same apartment building where my husband and I live.
The next day we met at an open area behind the garden. For more than three hours, Lim Bo Nam and I shared our lives. Acting on a strong feeling, I shared some of my beliefs as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I also told her about the sacrament meetings we were holding in our home during the COVID-19 pandemic. Then I invited her to our home to join us. To my surprise, she promised to come.
We taught Sister Lim about repentance and the meaning of the emblems of the sacrament. We also shared some related Bible verses about the importance of being “born of water and of the Spirit” (John 3:5). The Spirit touched her.
Sister Lim expressed gratitude to learn about the true gospel of Jesus Christ. After receiving the discussions from the full-time missionaries, she was baptized August 1, 2020.
During her first fast and testimony meeting as a member of the Church, she testified that she had prayed to make friends in her new area. On the day we met, she had also prayed about which church to attend.
I am grateful the Lord answered both of our prayers and blessed me with the opportunity to make a friend and share the gospel with her.

I can remember well the first time I noticed Jamie. Her long dark hair was braided and pulled neatly behind her small head. Her eyes, large and soft with a brownish luster, peered timidly around the room as Sister Jones, one of the Primary presidency, led her to a seat. It was my first day as a Primary teacher in a new ward, yet even with my many thoughts about my recent marriage, new friends, and new calling, something about Jamie attracted my attention.
After we separated for classes I became absorbed in my lesson for the Valiant A class and for a time forgot that moment when I noticed Jamie. Five minutes into the lesson, however, a quiet knock sounded at the door and Sister Jones escorted Jamie to a chair within the circle we had formed. Her pretty face looked at the floor, glancing up only occasionally to reveal her high cheekbones and fine features. Her expression held a look of innocence and intelligence, which was hidden once more as her attention returned to the tiles on the floor. As the hour progressed, she became more and more involved in the activities, smiling frequently and answering questions about the prophets that we were studying. She listened with complete attention to the entire lesson, keeping her arms folded and talking only when discussion was invited.
When the other children had left for sacrament meeting, I turned from erasing the chalkboard to see her still sitting patiently, as though waiting for me to finish.
“Aren’t you going to sacrament meeting?” I asked, sitting down on the tiny chair beside her.
She smoothed the pleats of her neatly ironed dress and slowly looked up at me.
“Yes. May I go with you?” Her voice sounded wistful, as though the request might displease me.
“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll help you find your parents, but we’ll have to hurry—the meeting will be starting soon.”
“My mom doesn’t come to church.”
“Oh, well, then it must be your grandma. Where is she?”
The small hands ceased their smoothing motions and dropped to her lap.
“No one comes with me. I just come by myself.”
“No one? Surely you have friends or relatives that bring you.”
She shook her head simply and took my hand as if to go. “May I sit with you, please?”
I smiled at the earnest little face. “Of course you may.”
She smiled, a warm expression radiating the love that small children can give spontaneously, and pulled me out the door toward the chapel.
After the meeting, the Sunday School president approached while Jamie was talking to my husband, Dave.
“I see you’ve met Jamie already. I was hoping that she would be assigned to your class.”
I pulled him farther aside. “Jamie told me that no one comes to church with her. How does she get here? Does one of the bishopric pick her up?”
He shook his head and smiled in a funny, confused way. “No. She just shows up on the doorstep of the chapel every Sunday, waiting for the meetings to start—and I mean every Sunday.”
As he left to attend to other business, I sat down and watched Jamie as she spoke to Dave. What inspires a child of her age to such diligent church attendance? Was it possible for a nine-year-old to possess that level of spiritual maturity? I decided to find out more about this puzzling little girl.
The week passed quickly as work and homemaking activities filled my time. Then it was Sunday, and my class was coming into Primary. It wasn’t until five minutes after the meeting had started that I saw Jamie, a little out of breath, slip into the back row. After class, she came up to talk as usual. Seeing her solemn expression, I couldn’t resist teasing her.
“That must be the first time you’ve ever been late to church in your life! You looked as though you had run all the way.”
She gazed up at me, taking in my comment with complete seriousness. “I’m sorry I was late. Last night, my friend invited me to sleep over, and I forgot that today was Sunday until very late. I ran home then, but I must have slept in.”
I was stunned. “You mean that you went home from your friend’s house all on your own?”
She nodded slowly, as though it had been a confession. My attitude of joking was quickly replaced by one of love and admiration. I resolved again to find out more about Jamie’s background.
Late that Sunday afternoon I went to Jamie’s house to deliver some class preparation materials. I walked up to the screen door and knocked. As the door swung open I was overwhelmed by the smell of thick cigarette smoke that hung in the darkened front room. The sour smell of beer blended with it to make my eyes water. Standing at the entrance was a large, heavyset man dressed in faded pants and an undershirt. His face, wide and unshaven, regarded me coldly, looking first at my Primary manual, then directly into my eyes. His own were red and bloodshot, but they gazed unblinking as I stammered to say something—anything.
“Is Jamie here? I have some things to give her for class.” I thought briefly that mentioning the nature of the class might be unwise. To my surprise, however, his features softened slightly. He seemed to have decided that I wasn’t a salesperson of any kind. He motioned for me to enter, so taking a deep breath, I stepped into the room.
The smoke hung about the ceiling, making my throat itch when I breathed. Through the haze I could see a shabby brown couch and matching chair. Sitting there, playing cards on a table, amid a pile of beer bottles, were two other men and a woman. The heavy drapes were drawn closely, allowing no sunlight into the room, which was lit only by a single bulb suspended from the ceiling.
The woman looked up at me with a puzzled expression. Though her hair was much lighter than Jamie’s, I could see features similar to Jamie’s behind the dark lipstick and eye makeup. The men, dressed much like the one who had answered the door, continued their game as if I wasn’t there. I repeated my question to the woman: “Is Jamie here? I have some things from class to give her.”
She nodded slowly and shuffled out of the room, returning in a few minutes.
“She’s not here. I think she’s out playing with a friend somewhere.”
“I see. Well, would you please give her these things? They are from a project that we did in class today.”
She took the pictures and book and placed them on a chair. The man standing by the door opened it for me and I emerged into the bright sunlight and sweet fall air.
As I walked home, my mind was filled with thoughts and pictures. How could that little girl have such spiritual maturity and devotion? Again and again I saw the darkness of the room contrasted with the light that shone from Jamie. Would she be able to continue attending church? How would she learn about the gospel outside of the classroom? What would motivate her to keep trying as the years passed? Then I paused as a scripture suddenly came to mind: “For behold, the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil.” (Moro. 7:16.)
The words echoed in my mind—every man, every woman, every girl, every little girl, no matter where she lives! How brightly that light shone within Jamie, magnified to brilliance by the darkness of her surroundings! I resolved to help her small light maintain its glow until it had a chance to grow and stand alone.
From then on, every week after church, Jamie spent some time at our house playing games, eating, and just talking. As time passed, we came to admire her inner strength more and more. She possessed a peace and serenity that affected everyone around her.
Then, as we were walking home one day, unexpectedly she said, “Sandy, I want to be baptized. I’m nine years old, and it’s time for me to be baptized, but I can’t get anyone to do it.”
I was filled with an overwhelming love for her as those big dark eyes gazed up at me with unusual intensity. I gave her a big hug and we skipped home together hand in hand.
Jamie was baptized a few months later by one of the missionaries assigned to our area. He and his companion went through the discussions with Jamie, and her mother consented for her to be baptized. Dave and I sat on the fourth row, just behind Jamie’s mother and sister. Her mother looked different somehow—a little happier since I had seen her at home. At first, she seemed a little uncomfortable in the chapel, but the spirit of the meeting seemed to put her at ease. When Jamie came out dressed in white, my heart swelled with love and wonder. She looked beautiful and pure, walking down the aisle. She smiled as she passed us, the happy smile of a nine-year-old, the loveliness of a daughter of God.
As the missionaries gave talks about faith and obedience, I watched her listening intently as always, and knew that those words were being taught by the Spirit even as the elders spoke. Then it was time to go to the font. Jamie didn’t hesitate as she stepped into the water. A thrill went through me, and the words of Christ, when he spoke, “Suffer [the] little children to come unto me” (Luke 18:16) took on new meaning as I watched a little one do exactly that. She was then confirmed, and I was grateful to hear an inspired priesthood bearer ask Heavenly Father to bless her family to support her as a Church member. I said “amen” to his prayer with particular enthusiasm, knowing that Jamie now had a Companion to guide her throughout her life in any circumstance. With the aid of the Holy Ghost, her tiny light will indeed grow, and she will know great joy in the kingdom of heaven.

Anita Harlow, a 16-year-old in Redcliffe, Queensland, Australia, is a year-11 student at a private college (equivalent to American high school), and one of only six LDS students. Every year, students take a class titled “Christian Knowledge” in which they study basic Christian theology as well as other religions.
The Christian Knowledge coordinator at the school, Ian Hauser, asked Anita and her parents to review the material the school had on the LDS church. To the Harlows’ dismay, much of the material was anti-Mormon and contained a great deal of misinformation. Because Mr. Hauser respected Anita and her beliefs, he asked Anita and her parents to advise him about the best way to be fair in representing the facts.
“We proposed the idea that we would get people from the Church to come in and talk about us, instead of using the books they had. Mr. Hauser was absolutely wonderful. He and school officials agreed to our proposal,” says Anita.
Anita credits much of her success in the subject of Christian Knowledge to the material she learns in seminary. Anita is on the school Spiritual Development Committee, which plans school devotional activities, and has been instrumental in teaching her fellow students about the restored gospel.

Recently, as our small group of missionaries was traveling from the Ghana Accra Missionary Training Centre to our mission assignment in Lubumbashi, we met two women at the Kenya airport departure lounge. As newly trained missionaries having a great desire to teach, we approached and made acquaintance with them. After introducing ourselves, I had the opportunity to present the message of the gospel of Jesus Christ, which is what we strive to share with everyone.
It was difficult for those women to give us much time to listen, or to accept an appointment, or even to take the pamphlets we offered them. But an idea came to my mind that we should not insist but rather that we should just bear simple testimony of the gospel.
Right before boarding the plane bound for Lubumbashi, one of those women approached and told me that she had been thinking about what I had said and was now aware that this message was important for her and her whole family. Her interest came about simply because of the testimony I had borne and the confidence that I had to say that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the only true Church here on the earth.
She also said to me that she had been asking herself two questions: “Why was this young missionary able to bear such a sure testimony?” “How can I also gain a testimony of these things myself?”
Apparently, my testimony had preoccupied her, and I immediately realized that just bearing our testimony influences many people to ponder and be converted.
This airport experience taught me that our testimony does not depend on eloquence—or the power of our voice—but it does depend on the conviction of our heart. That is why when we become converted, our testimony has power and affects those who listen to it.

I am a cross-country runner. One day before a race I had great fear come over me. This was an important race and I was afraid that I wouldn’t do well. I didn’t want to let my team down. I called my mom a little bit before the race began and told her how I felt. She began to sing the third verse of “How Firm a Foundation” (Hymns, no. 85) to me. The song reminded me that I should not fear, because God is with me. I repeated these words over and over in my head until my fear went away and I was able to run the race.

I placed my heavy textbook down on the table as the bell rang for first period. My biology teacher was finishing up some work at his computer. “Hello Hop,” he said as I walked in. I sat down and unzipped my pink backpack, pulling out my homework while the other students came through the open door. I had worked hard to get my worksheet on plants done late the night before.
I greeted my friend sitting in the chair next to me. I had fun chatting with her every morning at the beginning of biology class.
“Emily, I need your help,” she said.
“What can I do for you?” I responded cheerfully.
“I couldn’t get my homework done, and I was wondering if I could use your answers. I’ve missed so much being sick, and I really need to get this assignment in or my grade will drop.”
My mind started to whirl. “But isn’t that cheating?” I questioned in amazement.
“Well, I already did this assignment, I just don’t have it with me now. Can I hurry and copy your paper before class starts?”
She was my friend and I really wanted to help her. It was a fill-in-the-blank worksheet, so the teacher wouldn’t know they were my answers. He was busy, so he wouldn’t see her copying my notes. I sat there undecided, a battle raging in my mind. Should I help her cheat, or should I refuse to help my friend? It was true that she had been sick and missed a lot of class, and I really wanted to be a good friend.
As I hesitated, my mind made a long list of reasons why it would be OK to help her. On the other hand, I knew it wouldn’t be right. Then I made a choice. I wanted to be a reliable friend, but even more, I wanted to be honest.
Apprehensively, I turned toward her. “I wish I could help you, but I don’t feel right about letting you use my answers,” I said. “I am really sorry.”
It was hard for me to disappoint my friend, but I had a good feeling inside, one that comes from knowing I had kept my integrity and been honest even with a good friendship on the line. As my teacher started the day’s lesson, many students in that first period biology class thought it was just a normal day. But for me, it was a day to remember. That day marked an important decision in my life. That choice defined what was honest and what wasn’t honest. The next time I faced someone asking me to share my answers, I had already made my decision. I had made the resolve to be honest under all circumstances.

As a young Honolulu teenager, my mother, Jean Char Gong, met missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, recognized gospel truth, and was baptized, the only member of her family to join at the time.
She later married in the temple, raised and nurtured three children, 11 grandchildren, and now 11 great-grandchildren. She has served faithfully in Church callings, including arranging flowers for the chapel and typing patriarchal blessings for her husband, who served many years as a patriarch.
My mother’s lifelong faith, hope, and charity make her a pioneer in our now four-generation gospel family. She has walked with faith in every footstep throughout her life.

Natalie liked to watch her mom put on makeup. “Can I wear lipstick, too?” she asked one morning.
Mom smiled. “Not yet. Makeup isn’t for children.”
Natalie tried not to frown, but Mom looked so pretty. Natalie wanted to see how she would look wearing lipstick, too. “I won’t make a mess,” she promised. “I won’t even touch it! You can put it on for me.” She puckered her lips and stared at her mother’s reflection in the mirror. “Please?”
“No, Natalie. You’re too young.”
Natalie stormed out of the bathroom and flopped onto her bed. She had been old enough to make a very important decision last month—the decision to be baptized. If she was old enough to do something that important, why was she still too young to do so many other things? She sighed. It didn’t seem fair.
On Sunday, Grandma and Grandpa came over for dinner. After the meal, while the family sat around the table talking, Natalie excused herself to go to the bathroom. Something on the bathroom counter caught her eye: Mom’s makeup bag.
“Mom won’t know if I try on her lipstick,” Natalie thought, “as long as I wipe it off afterward.” She peered down the hall and saw the adults still talking and laughing. Now was her chance! She closed the door and poked through the bag until she found Mom’s red lipstick. Smearing it on her lips, she gave the mirror a glamorous smile. “See, I do look pretty with it on,” she thought.
When the doorknob rattled, she realized she hadn’t locked the door. It opened a crack. Quickly, she slammed it shut again.
“Hey,” Dad called. “What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing,” Natalie called back. “I need to use the bathroom, but I forgot to lock the door.”
“Sorry,” Dad said. She heard his footsteps disappear back down the hall. Breathing a sigh of relief, she wiped the lipstick off.
At first Natalie didn’t think much about the incident. She had tried on Mom’s makeup. It was only for a few seconds. She hadn’t made a mess or ruined anything. No one had seen her.
But a few weeks later, during the sacrament, Natalie remembered slamming the door on Dad. “What’s going on in there?” he had called. “Nothing,” she had said. Not only had she disobeyed her mom, she had lied to her dad, too.
“Why am I thinking about this?” she asked herself crossly, trying to shrug away the uncomfortable feeling. “It’s no big deal.” As the sacrament tray came down her row, she silently said a quick prayer asking for forgiveness and tried to think about something else.
All week, she couldn’t shake the bad feeling. It only got worse. Every time she forgot about her little white lie, something reminded her again. When her third-grade teacher smiled, Natalie noticed her shiny red lipstick. When a classmate came in late, slamming the door behind him, Natalie remembered slamming the door on Dad. “This is silly,” she chided herself. “Forget about it!” But she couldn’t.
By the end of the week, Natalie was so worried she felt almost sick. “All this guilt over lipstick?” she thought. Why was her conscience hounding her over something so small?
“Heavenly Father,” she prayed that night, “please help me to feel better without having to tell Mom what I did. It’s not that important, and I don’t want her to know. But I’m really, really sorry. Please forgive me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
She sat at her bedside waiting for the Holy Ghost to tell her that everything was OK, but she felt only sadness.
The next morning, Natalie knew she had to confess. She sat on the edge of her bed and took a deep breath. Even though she was determined, she was also scared. Slowly, she stood and padded barefoot down the hall to the bathroom, where her mom was getting ready for the day.
“Mom, your lipstick is pretty,” she murmured.
Mom smiled. “Thank you, sweetie.”
Natalie gulped. “I tried it on a few weeks ago.”
Mom raised her eyebrows. “After I told you not to?”
“When Grandma and Grandpa came for dinner, I came in here and tried it on. Dad almost caught me, but I told him I was using the bathroom. I’m sorry.”
Mom didn’t say anything.
“Are you mad?” Natalie whimpered.
Mom squeezed Natalie’s shoulder. “I’m disappointed because you know better. But I’m happy that you told me the truth.”
At once, Natalie’s prayer to feel OK again was answered. The worried feeling went away. The knot in her stomach relaxed. Even though Mom was sure to punish her, Natalie felt like smiling. Nothing could be worse than the guilt she had carried. She never wanted to feel like that again.
Even though she wasn’t old enough to wear makeup, she was old enough for more important things—like honoring the gift of the Holy Ghost and following its promptings.

Discussing Church activities, Arda Gallete announces casually, “I’m the Junior Sunday School chorister and teach the four-to-nine-year-old class. I’m president of the Laurel class. I’m on the scripture chase team, and I’m in a folkloric group that promotes missionary work in Chile.” Then, reflectively, she adds, “I’ve undergone many tests, and I wouldn’t be here working in the Church if I didn’t know that God is really my loving Father and that I am one of his warriors who must try by every means to combat Satan. A fine nonmember dancer came to our group and asked about the Church. I explained a great deal to him and so did my bishop. He was able to help us with our dances too. He went on a stake camping trip and in the testimony meeting he said he felt something he had never felt before. He cried when he stood up to speak, said we had been a great help to him because of the love and acceptance we gave him, and told us that what we taught him by example was something very special. He is now a member.”

When I was 11 years old, my bishop called me in for an interview in his office. He said, “Ulisses, it’s time to start your preparation to go on a mission.” I was astonished because I was only 11 years old! But he said, “We have to start that process now.”
My bishop said, “I’ll interview you once in a while to see how your progress is.” Then he gave me some direction. He taught me about the commandments, the priesthood, worthiness, and honesty. I was so impressed because he looked in my eyes and said, “You will serve a mission if you follow the directions I am giving you.”
I always remembered his words, especially when I faced a challenge. For example, one time my mother gave me money to go to a store to buy some fruit. For some reason the cashier gave me back more money than I gave her to pay for the fruit. I started walking home, and when I opened my hand, I saw that I had more money than I had started with.
Satan tried to convince me that I could keep the money for myself. I thought, “I have some money to do whatever I want, and then I will give back the correct change to my mother.” But then I thought, “No, that’s not what the bishop told me. To be a missionary I have to be honest.” I felt the Spirit at that time and went back to the store to give back the money. I felt good in my heart. I thought, “I was honest, I obeyed the commandments, and I am preparing for my mission. I will be a missionary, and I need to be honest.”

The happiness I feel in seminary is a lot like the happiness I feel when I’m in the temple. Before I turned 11, my siblings and friends had all been to the temple but I hadn’t.
When I was finally old enough to go inside and do baptisms, I felt a great peace. Even though my family and friends had described to me the feeling of being in the temple, I was so excited that I was able to feel that for myself.

Lisa loved to dance. Twice a week she went to Mrs. Joule’s ballet school for lessons. But no matter how hard she worked, Lisa felt she would never be as good as Susan or Jody, the best students in the class. The proof was in the mirrors that covered one whole wall of the huge ballet practice room.
Oh, those knees! thought Lisa as she stared at her reflection. Why do they have to stick out when everyone else’s are straight? Lisa worried because her toes didn’t point as gracefully or her legs kick as high as the rest of the girls’. She also believed that she was the only one who ever fell down while doing ballet turns across the room. Lisa wanted to be in the first line, where all the best dancers were, instead of the second or third line. If she became good enough, Mrs. Joule would move her up, but that seemed impossible.
One afternoon when Lisa reached into her bag for her pink ballet slippers, they weren’t there. She had left them at home. “Mrs. Joule,” she called, “may I borrow a pair of slippers?”
“Of course,” her teacher replied, and she brought in a big box full of slippers that she kept for such an emergency. Each pair was folded neatly and held together with a rubber band.
After sorting through a few pairs with Mrs. Joule, Lisa found a nearly new pair of pink slippers that were held with satin ribbons instead of strips of elastic as her own were. They were exactly her size! “How about these?” she asked.
“Fine,” Mrs. Joule responded, adding, “I remember these shoes. They belonged to Eileen Webster, who’s with a big ballet company now. I’m proud to say she is one of their best dancers.”
Lisa slipped the shoes on and tied the smooth satin ribbons around her ankles. How comfortable they were. In fact, Eileen Webster’s shoes felt wonderfully special. And so did Lisa. She daydreamed about being a great ballerina until someone shook her shoulder. “It’s time for class,” Susan said.
That afternoon Lisa danced better than usual. She did every step the best that she could. She wanted to be another Eileen Webster, and the shoes were helping her. The mirrors reflected a new Lisa. Mrs. Joule even called on her to demonstrate a particular dance step. For once, Susan and Jody were following her, and Lisa was careful not to make any mistakes.
After class Lisa went up to Mrs. Joule and asked, “If I give you my old shoes, do you think I could keep this pair?”
“If you’d like,” replied Mrs. Joule. “Do they feel all right?”
“They’re perfect!” said Lisa.
The next time Lisa went to class she exchanged her own worn slippers for Eileen Webster’s almost new ones. As time passed she started coming early so that she could practice before class. Sometimes she stayed later with Susan and Jody to work on different kinds of ballet steps and turns. And she was soon moved to the front line. She was also the first student to do two turns in place instead of just one.
“That was really good!” Susan said sincerely.
“Thanks,” said Lisa. She couldn’t tell Susan that it was the shoes that made her dance so well. That had to be a secret. There wasn’t another pair like them. They helped her leap higher, land more softly, arch her feet more gracefully, and twirl around like a toy top.
As dance recital time drew near when all the students in the class would present what they had learned before an audience of parents and friends, Lisa’s class met more often to rehearse their dances. Lisa noticed that her shoes were showing signs of wear. The once-smooth leather looked wrinkled, and the soft pink color was not so pink any more. The ribbons became unstitched and were resewed again and again. But because the shoes were so important to Lisa, Mrs. Joule did not insist that she get new ones for the recital. “Clean them up the best you can,” she said.
Shortly before the show was to start on the first night, Lisa was practicing her solo when she felt the bare floor against her foot. The sole of her shoes had torn, leaving a big hole! She had to find Mrs. Joule.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Mrs. Joule. “It’s a good thing I brought the box of extra shoes. You certainly can’t wear these. Not only do they look terrible, but this torn one is dangerous. Lisa, these shoes are worn out.”
“Mrs. Joule,” cried Lisa, her eyes wide with panic, “I have to wear them! Oh, please try to fix them. I’ll never be able to dance without them!”
Lisa felt sick to her stomach. Without those slippers, I’ll dance like the old Lisa. I’ll make mistakes and embarrass everybody. She shivered at the thoughts going through her head.
“All right, Lisa,” said Mrs. Joule. “I’ll see what can be done. Now go get dressed. I’ll bring your shoes to you.”
Lisa went to the dressing room. Nervously she touched her hair. Where, she wondered, is Mrs. Joule? She did several fast turns to see if her hair would stay in place. It was fine. What’s keeping Mrs. Joule? Her classmates were talking and helping each other with their costumes and makeup. Lisa put on her dance dress and checked around for her teacher.
“Don’t worry, Lisa,” said Susan. “She’ll be here.”
A few minutes before show time Mrs. Joule hurried down the hall. “Here are your shoes, Lisa,” she said breathlessly. “Now hurry! You girls are dancing first.”
Lisa put the slippers on quickly. “Oh, thank you,” she said, and gave her teacher a big embrace. “Everything will be fine now.”
Lisa hurried into the dance line between Susan and Jody, and one by one they danced out onto the brightly lit stage as the audience clapped.
The whole show went smoothly. Lisa’s class received extra applause for some of the more difficult dance steps that they did. Lisa had never danced better. She knew her family was proud of her.
When it was all over, Lisa and her parents went to say good night to Mrs. Joule.
“Thank you again for repairing my shoes,” said Lisa. “I couldn’t have done well without them.”
“But you did,” said Mrs. Joule as she held up Eileen Webster’s tattered shoes. “I couldn’t tell you before because you were so sure it was the shoes that made you dance well. Now you see it wasn’t the shoes at all. It was your own hard work, and you made me very proud tonight.”
Lisa stared at Eileen Webster’s worn shoes.
Mrs. Joule continued, “You may keep her shoes if you like, but please, from now on, wear your own. I just sewed ribbons on them for you to use tonight.”
Lisa pulled the ballet slippers she had been wearing out of her bag and saw her initials printed on the inside of each one. They’re the very same pair that I exchanged for those of the ballet star! she said to herself in amazement.
“Did you hear that?” she asked her mother. “It wasn’t the shoes. It was me all the time, and I didn’t even know it? Just wait until tomorrow night. I’ll do even better!”
And she did.

I had been preparing to be a Buddhist nun. But everything changed in December 1985, when I was converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ and was baptized a member of the Church.
I began working as a delivery driver for a catering company. Such a routine job may sound boring, but I enjoyed the opportunity it gave me to share the gospel and make new friends.
Strangely, it seemed that almost every customer had something to say about religion at one time or another. But I never told them I was a Latter-day Saint unless they asked about my church. Once in a while I made arrangements to visit with customers after work to tell them more about the Church.
Most of my customers were at home when I made my deliveries. But if no one was there, I left a note with the deliveries. One customer who was never home when I called was Mrs. Ueki. She began to respond to my notes, and I looked forward to receiving her heartwarming message every day. Although I had never seen her, I gave her the nickname of “Ducky.” She responded by nicknaming me “Rooster.”
About this time, I was preparing for my mission call to Hokkaido, Japan. In the middle of March, I wrote Ducky to tell her I was going out of town, but I didn’t tell her why. I didn’t want her to feel I had become her friend just to baptize her. I sincerely wished to continue our friendship.
But after many humble prayers, I finally decided to write Ducky and tell her I was a Latter-day Saint. I wanted her to know why I had joined the Church and why I was going to Hokkaido for eighteen months. The next day, I left her the letter along with two missionary brochures, The Purpose of Life and The Testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Two weeks after I arrived at Asahikawa, Hokkaido, I received a letter from Ducky. As soon as I opened it, I recognized the beautiful, familiar handwriting: “Dear Rooster, How have you been? How is life treating you? Are the people there nice to you? I hope you are not having any trouble. Do you eat well? I am concerned about your well being.”
My eyes filled with tears.
Following her opening greetings there was a space of a few lines, and then she began a new letter. This time she addressed me, surprisingly, as “Sister Iwasaki.”
“You left me the brochures on your last delivery. I had always told my friends that I was looking for the true church. After I finished your letter, I browsed through the brochures, and my heart became full. I asked myself, ‘Is this what I have been searching for?’
“I also wanted to know why you chose this church, so on the same day, I called the Osaka Mission Home in Hirakata. We set a date for my first appointment with the missionaries on April 9, which was followed by more visits on April 12 and 16 and on May 2.”
I was elated!
We corresponded with each other for six months, and I could sense her testimony growing over that time. On November 13, when I walked into the chapel, a member told me that there was a package for me. On the package was written “For Your Birthday.” It was from Ducky. Inside was a letter in which she wrote:
“Dear Rooster, I’m sorry I haven’t written to you earlier. Last Friday, my oldest son, Junya, who is eight years old, finished the last missionary discussion. Yesterday he was interviewed for baptism. Guess when the date of our baptismal service is? We could have set it earlier, but we planned it for November 27. Do you know why? Because it’s your birthday!”
That was the best birthday ever—knowing that Ducky and Junya were being baptized. My friends back home attended the baptismal service in my behalf.
I thank God for using me as his tool to help lead Sister Ueki and her family to the gospel.

I would like to focus on the promise to always remember Him. Many years ago, Nuria and I were taught the restored gospel by two young full-time missionaries who brought the presence of the Holy Ghost into our home. Those are indeed days never to be forgotten. As we entered the waters of baptism, received the gift of the Holy Ghost, and were confirmed as members of His true Church, we started on the Lord’s covenant path. Walking along this path has become the most important thing in our lives, as we focus on becoming an eternal family.

In another service project titled “Light the world by helping one person help another”, missionaries identified an area in the George metropolitan area that needed upliftment.

“We identified a local neighbourhood park that was in bad need of upgrading, interviewed patrons of the park and a neighbourhood volunteer who helped clean the park,” Elder Miller said.

“We then kept track of what facilities were being used and what was in need of repair. We contacted and met with local government officials and presented a comprehensive plan to them and demonstrated our willingness as a Church to help fund the initial upgrade needs to get the project rolling. They approved our initial proposal and we ordered some facility upgrades.” the Millers said.

On that frozen morning, I heard shouting and distressed moos in the distance behind me as I ran to get an axe and some rope.
OK, hold on—let’s back up for some context.
Two years before that snowy morning, my family had moved from suburbia to a tiny little plot of farmland in Missouri. Our new property had some forested land to explore and a small pond, which was nice, but I wasn’t a fan of all the animals that I was now expected to help take care of.
Now, back to that cold winter morning. We could tell there was a problem when one of our poor little cows didn’t come to his food dish at the regular time, even after we shook the food in a metal tin. They were trained to come running when we shook the tin. It seemed to be some sort of angelic summons to them, but the tactic didn’t work that morning.
We kept waiting and soon heard distressed moos off in the distance. We went to investigate and discovered that the cow had walked out into the middle of the frozen pond and had fallen in. The pond was only about five feet deep, but the cow was quite small and had to bounce on his hind legs to keep his head above the frigid water.
And that’s when the yelling started.
My parents directed me to run to our toolshed a quarter of a mile away and bring back an axe that we could use to break up the ice, as well as some rope. The moment I got back to the pond, we tried to use the rope to pull the cow out but quickly discovered a couple of things: one, none of us actually knew how to tie a lasso, and two, the only rope available was closer in strength and size to twine. It seemed to me that our little cow was a goner.
My dad and mom really cared about that cow, so my dad led the charge, axe in hand, and they started to literally chop their way through the ice towards the cow, clearing a 20-foot-long path for the cow to walk out of the pond. Everyone was worried that either the cow would kick my dad or that my dad would accidentally hit the cow with the axe, but somehow the crazy plan worked. The cow didn’t drown!
But the worry wasn’t over. As soon as the cow got out of the water, he started shivering like an old washing machine on spin cycle. My parents were freezing too, but they were more worried about the cow. My dad ran to get a campfire started in the middle of the field while my mom ran to get some quilts. Us kids corralled the cow close to the fire so that he wouldn’t run away. Soon, he warmed up enough to stop shivering and eat some of his hard-won breakfast.