Gospel Story Finder

One day I saw my oldest son, Wilford, preparing a tithing envelope. He was probably around five years old at the time. Wilford didn’t earn any money, so I wondered why he was paying tithing. When I asked him, he told me he was actually paying a fast offering.
Wilford didn’t have much money of his own. But he was still excited to pay a fast offering.
I was impressed by this act of kindness. I asked him why he had decided to do this.
Wilford answered, “I don’t have any needs. But I know others do.” He knew his money would help people. He was very happy about that.
This simple experience taught me a good lesson: children are really in tune with the Spirit and have a natural Christlike love. Wilford had something he didn’t need and knew it would be helpful to other people. He was willing to make the sacrifice.
Saving money is good. But my young son taught me another lesson through his example. By listening to the Spirit, we can bless the lives of others when we share what we have.

“I’ve never had it easy,” says Dahvana Daneisha Shanika Providence from Saint Vincent.
After attending different schools due to constant changes in her earlier education and having health issues during her secondary education, she felt the need to achieve her dreams.
Having obtained second place on her first pageant, she decided to pursue her dreams in the textile world.
Being persistent in that dream has gotten Dahvana a scholarship in New York to study fashion after winning Miss Venus Model Caribbean 2018.

Gary and Tommy were building a bridge. It had rained that day, and the rain had made a little brook through Gary’s backyard.

“I’m going to be an engineer when I grow up,” declared Gary. “I’m going to build bridges just like the ones my daddy builds.”

“I’m going to be a truck driver,” announced Tommy. “I’m going to drive a great big trailer truck. I’ll bet my truck will be the biggest in the whole world!”

“It better not be too big,” said Gary, “or it can’t go under or over some bridges.” Then he ran over to the garage to get another board. His family had just moved in, and there were plenty of boards from the empty furniture crates. Gary’s toys hadn’t come yet, so the boys were playing with Tommy’s big blue truck.

“I’m going to load my truck with rocks,” Tommy said, “and drive it over the bridge.”

“The bridge isn’t ready yet,” said Gary. “Wait till I get this board in place.”

But Tommy wouldn’t wait. “Here I come,” he said, and started his truck along the road toward the bridge. It was a muddy road, but Tommy pushed and pushed till he got his truck up onto the narrow bridge. Then one wheel went off the edge, and the whole truck with its load of stones fell into the brook.

“I’ll help you pick them up,” said Gary.

“You leave them alone,” said Tommy. “They’re my rocks. If you’d built your old bridge better, my truck wouldn’t have gone off the edge.”

Tommy started picking his rocks out of the water. When he turned around, Gary was backing the truck down so he could help put the rocks back in. Tommy dropped the rocks and grabbed his truck. “That’s my truck!” Tommy said. And away he ran, leaving Gary all by himself.

Gary looked puzzled, but after a minute he began to work on the bridge again. “It’s going to be a four-lane bridge,” he said to himself, “just like the one Daddy is building.”

Tommy ran into the kitchen as soon as he got home. “Mom,” he called, “Gary pushed my truck into the water.”

“That’s too bad,” Tommy’s mother said. “How did it happen?”

“We were building a bridge, and Gary didn’t make it wide enough, and my truck fell off into the water and got all wet.”

“Oh,” said Tommy’s mother. “I thought you said Gary pushed it.”

Tommy didn’t say anything for a minute. His mother took a pan of cookies out of the oven. Reluctantly Tommy said, “I guess he didn’t really push it. But it’s my truck and Gary didn’t have any right to play with it.”

“Whose bridge were you driving it over?” asked Tommy’s mother.

“Well,” said Tommy finally, “we both started to build it, but I guess the boards were Gary’s.” Then he turned and started to go back outdoors. “I don’t care,” he said. “He can’t have my truck. I’m going to play in my sandbox!” Tommy slammed the door.

Tommy made a road in his sandbox, but when he tried to run his truck on it, the road wasn’t big enough for the truck to turn the corners. He looked for some boards to make a bridge up to the sandbox, but he couldn’t find any. Tommy tried pushing two trucks to make believe he was two truck drivers, but that wasn’t much fun. He sat down on the back steps to think.

At last Tommy got up and went slowly into the kitchen. “Mom,” he asked, “may I go back over to Gary’s yard to play?”

“What would you play with?” asked his mother.

“I’ll take Gary one of my trucks,” said Tommy. “Then we’ll each have one.”

Tommy’s mother smiled. “Would you like to load some cookies onto your trucks? I’ll wrap them in waxed paper for you.”

“Thanks, Mom!” said Tommy.

Two minutes later Tommy was back in Gary’s yard, holding a truck carefully in each hand so as not to spill the cookies. “Gary!” he called. “I brought you a truck.”

“That’s neat,” said Gary. “See, I’ve built the bridge wide enough so that we can both go over it at the same time.”

“That’ll be fun,” said Tommy. “I guess bridge builders and truck drivers have to work together.”

“I guess ’most everybody does,” said Gary.

Later, a young man moved into our community from Nigeria. I found out that he had recently completed his mission and relocated to my community. I enjoyed coming around him because of his strange accent and his stories about the development happening in Nigeria—the beautiful streets and cities.
One day, while we were arguing, one of my colleagues, Amos Bangura, made a statement: “Liberia is a hell, and if you are born and die in Liberia and go to hell, it is a double punishment. Then God is not fair because things are so tough in Liberia.”
The returned missionary, Brother James Kolue, quickly used that statement as an opportunity to teach us about Heavenly Father’s love for all His children—no matter their location, family background, or country. He taught us that God’s love extends beyond our imagination.
After his teaching, I quickly asked him: “Which church are you attending?”
He replied, “I attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Have you heard about this church before?”
I quickly said, “Yes, I sometimes see their missionaries passing by.”
He asked if I would like to learn from the missionaries, and I accepted the invitation. I started meeting with the missionaries. They were friendly and kind, and their message about Jesus Christ and the plan of salvation felt different from anything I had ever heard before.
I spent several weeks learning more about their beliefs and reading the Book of Mormon. There was something about the teachings that resonated deeply with me. I remember the day I prayed for the first time to know if the Church was true, and I felt an overwhelming peace—something I had never felt before.
That was when I knew I had to take the next step.
However, life became tough, and I moved to Logan Town in search of opportunities. There, I met different missionaries and stopped them to explain that I had been learning with missionaries in Brewerville. They contacted the other missionaries and continued my teaching.
The missionaries introduced me to the bishop, who was then Bishop Paul Wrotto. He guided and helped me as I took this new step. Soon after, I was baptized. The moment I emerged from the water, I felt like a new person. My heart was full, my mind clearer, and I was ready to follow the path that Heavenly Father had set for me.
The gospel changed everything in my life, and I felt a strong desire to share it with others—just as the missionaries had shared it with me.
I felt prompted to serve a full-time mission and discussed this with Bishop Wrotto. The decision wasn’t easy. I had doubts about leaving behind the life I knew, especially the part-time job that I struggled to get. But my bishop said two things that remained in my heart:
God knows you personally. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33).
You should create time for God. God should not create time for you.
These words kept playing in my mind. I knew it was what I was supposed to do.
I began preparing for my mission, and soon I was called to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission under President and Sister Young. I left my job to fully prepare, but then the unexpected happened: COVID-19.
The pandemic spread rapidly, buildings were shut down, churches were closed, and public gatherings were prohibited. The missionary training center (MTC) was closed, and I was stuck at home—no job, no mission, just frustration.
During this period, I began questioning my decision. But my bishop encouraged me to use the time as an opportunity to study the scriptures and follow the Come, Follow Me program.
Later, we were notified that we would begin online MTC training. Finally, I was blessed to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission.
My mission took me to places where I met incredible people and worked with companions who taught me to be bold in sharing the gospel and patience in helping others find the same joy I had found.
When I returned home, I felt the desire to share the gospel with my family—especially my brother. He had been skeptical when I first joined the Church. He didn’t understand why I was so passionate about it. But instead of forcing him, I decided to live by example.
One evening, I sat down with him and shared my testimony. I told him how the gospel had changed my life. To my surprise, he listened. We discussed the Book of Mormon, the teachings of Jesus Christ, and the Restoration of the gospel. It wasn’t a quick process, but over time he started reading and praying on his own.
Months later my brother made the decision to be baptized. I couldn’t have been happier. I saw him changing, growing, and the same light I once felt began to shine in him.
Eventually, he felt inspired to serve a full-time mission as well. He is currently serving in the DRC Kinshasa West Mission.
It brings me so much joy to see how far he has come. I know he will touch lives and help others find the same peace that comes from knowing Jesus Christ.
The gospel is meant to be shared, and I will continue to share it with those around me—just as I once shared it with my brother.
As I reflect on my journey—from meeting the missionaries, becoming a missionary myself, and helping my brother find his own path—I know that the Lord’s plan is much bigger than we can understand.
I call this story “a journey of faith.”

Anna’s heart sank as she walked into the room and saw the Christmas tree. The water heater in their house had burst, and water was all over the floor. Dad was still trying to clean up the mess. The few presents under the tree were completely soaked.
Anna and her little brothers grabbed some towels and tried to dry the presents. But it didn’t really work. They were a soggy mess.
Anna’s family was going through a hard time. Her dad didn’t have a job right now. Her mom was going to have a baby soon, and she felt sick a lot. And now they wouldn’t have any presents for Christmas.
That night as Anna got ready for bed, she could hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen.
“What are we going to do?” Mom asked. It sounded like she was crying. “We don’t have enough money for the house payment, and now we don’t even have presents for the kids.” Anna had an empty, twisty feeling in her stomach.
“We’ll figure something out,” Dad said.
Anna walked into the kitchen. Mom reached out and gave her a big hug. With her arms around Mom’s tummy, Anna felt the baby move. She smiled. “We have a new baby coming. You always say that a baby is a miracle.”
Mom smiled back. “That’s right. We have a lot to be grateful for.”
“We have each other,” Dad said. He kissed the top of Anna’s head. “It’ll be OK.”
On the way to her room, Anna heard her brothers crying. She sat down on David’s bed.
“Everyone is so sad,” David said quietly.
“And we won’t have any presents,” Robbie said, sniffling.
“It’ll be OK,” Anna said again. “You’ll see.”
Before she got into bed, Anna knelt and asked Heavenly Father what she could do for her family. She didn’t have any money to buy presents, but she still had a warm, comforting feeling in her heart.
The next morning, she stayed in bed thinking for a few minutes before getting ready for school. Then an idea came to her! That afternoon she hurried home and did her chores and homework. Then she found some paper and string and a few markers and stickers she had gotten for her birthday. She took them all to her room and closed the door.
Anna almost laughed when she thought about how surprised her family would be. First she folded the paper and tied it together with string to make four booklets. She chose a star sticker to put on Mom’s booklet and a planet for Dad’s. She put a dog for David’s booklet and a rocket for Robbie’s.
Then Anna started drawing. For Mom she drew a picture of herself sweeping the floor. She drew a picture of herself cooking dinner with Dad, one of her playing soccer with David, and one of her reading a book to Robbie. It took her several days to fill each booklet with pictures.
Finally it was Christmas Eve, and Anna carefully placed her booklets under the tree.
The next morning, she gave each person in her family a booklet. “I like these pictures,” David said. “I like playing soccer.”
“They’re not just pictures,” Anna said with a sparkle in her eyes. “They’re coupons! The pictures all show things I’ll do for you.”
“This is the nicest gift you could have given us,” Mom said as she looked through her booklet. Anna was thankful that Heavenly Father helped her think of making Christmas coupons. A new baby was coming, and with Heavenly Father’s help, everything really would be OK.

by Kevin Livingstone
We had all heard stories about the pioneers. We were told of their perseverance trudging through miles of mud, of their intense suffering crossing the barren plains, and of their ever present hunger and incredible sacrifices. Remembering them, we felt a variety of emotions: interest, excitement, a touch of fear. The reason? The Taber Stake of Alberta, Canada, would be participating in a pioneer trek.
The group, youth and leaders, were divided into “families.” Each family selected a handcart and assembled it, loaded it with gear, and left civilization behind.
The first few miles weren’t bad; then we began to get hungry and tired. A couple of miles later we considered rebellion, but then the handcarts ahead of us started singing songs the pioneers might have sung. We pulled some more.
After a day and a half of pulling a handcart, we arrived at base camp, where a variety of activities had been planned. It started to rain, but that didn’t dampen any spirits. We ate roast turkey, learned new games, made candy, and danced the Virginia Reel.
Sunday was a special day with church meetings and an afternoon devoted to quiet times alone in study or meditation.
After returning home to the prospects of hot water and soft beds, good-byes were said and promises made to keep in touch. And tears were shed. Tears for friends we had grown to love; tears for the experiences we had just been through; and tears for the strength of the pioneers. But most of all, we shed tears because we had come to know our Heavenly Father and his deep love for each of us as individuals.

Bathsheba’s early life was filled with excitement as she witnessed the beginnings of the restored Church. Born May 3, 1822, in Shinnston, Virginia, to Mark and Susannah (Ogden) Bigler, Bathsheba was a cheerful child, and she loved to spin, weave, and do embroidery with her mother and to go horseback riding with her father on their three-hundred-acre plantation. Religiously inclined, she was careful to say her secret prayers.
She wrote in her autobiography about joining the Church at age fifteen: “Some Latter-day Saint Elders visited our neighborhood. I heard them preach and believed what they taught. I believed the Book of Mormon to be a divine record, and that Joseph Smith was a Prophet of God. I knew by the spirit of the Lord which I received in answer to prayer, that these things were true.” Bathsheba’s immediate family and her uncle and his family were baptized.
One of her first experiences as a member of the Church was ridicule by her young acquaintances, and when the family decided to join with other Saints in Far West, Missouri, Bathsheba was disappointed that she couldn’t leave immediately with her married sister, Nancy. While pondering this disappointment, she seemed to hear a voice say, “Weep not. You will go this fall.” And her family did leave for Missouri that autumn.
During their journey, they were stopped by men who gathered around their wagon and tried to prevent them from going any farther. But after talking among themselves, the men said, “As you are Virginians, we will let you go on, but we believe you soon will return for you will quickly become convinced of your folly.” But Bathsheba and her family never thought of the gospel as “folly,” and events such as this only caused them to cling more strongly to their beliefs.

Bertha came into my life when I was thirteen years old and just beginning junior high school. How well I remember that first day of school. The building was large with endless halls and rows and rows of student lockers. Most of the students had come on school buses from small farms and neighborhoods. This was certainly not a big city group, but we were still anxious to be popular and accepted. There were so many of us that we were going to be using a former elementary school across the street for additional classrooms. I alternated between excitement and panic at the thought of finding my way around from one classroom to another.
I had worked hard all summer baby-tending and getting up at 5:00 A.M. to pick strawberries and cherries so I could earn enough money to buy nice school clothes. But even in all my fine new clothes, I felt awkward and uneasy.
My friends and I grouped together, trying to act in a casual manner to hide the fear we felt but didn’t dare admit. We were in awe as the older students moved confidently through the halls laughing and teasing each other. It was a relief when the bell finally rang and we all gathered in the big assembly hall where it was announced that each new student was to be assigned for the day to an older “big brother or sister” to show them around. The name of each new student was called out, along with the name of his or her “buddy” for the day.
When my name was called along with Bertha Brown, I heard several of my friends gasp. I had no idea who Bertha Brown was, but it was obvious that some of them did. As soon as we were excused to go meet our “big sisters,” I was surrounded by girls telling me to hide quickly before Bertha could find me. It was clear that to be assigned to Bertha was the worst possible fate. I was so confused. Part of me said not to hide—that would be a mean thing to do. But another part of me wanted to be popular with the other girls, and that’s the side that won.
So the game began—the hiding, the giggling, and the running from imagined danger. We managed to escape from Bertha for the moment, but not before I caught a glimpse of her. It was true that she was not pretty. She was even a little scary to look at with her unkempt, dry hair. Her clothes looked like something a grandmother would wear, and her shoes were brown and ugly.
All day the big story was how poor little Sheron had to hide from Bertha. The one time that I really saw Bertha’s face she looked so sad. How could we be so mean to her? I thought. She hadn’t done anything to deserve it. There we were, a whole group of girls, running away from one lonely person. I knew that what we were doing was wrong. I didn’t want to play that awful game. What I really wanted was to talk to Bertha and tell her I was sorry. I knew that she must be embarrassed. But I wasn’t brave enough, so I let everyone else lead me. But oh, I was miserable!
Later that day I forgot about Bertha when I was called to Mrs. Jensen’s office. She had been my very favorite teacher in elementary school, and now she was a counselor at the junior high. I could hardly wait to see her. All the way to her office I imagined all kinds of wonderful things. Maybe she wanted me to be her special assistant. Maybe she had something important that she wanted me to do. I almost ran through the halls in my eagerness to see Mrs. Jensen. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her.
When I walked into her office, I could see tears in her eyes, and my heart nearly broke when she looked straight at me and said, “Of all the girls coming into seventh grade, I assigned Bertha to you because I thought that you were the one girl who would be kind to her!”
All the misery of the day came crashing down on me, and I sobbed as I realized that Mrs. Jensen did have an important assignment for me and I had failed her. I had failed Bertha. But, most of all, I had betrayed myself. The next day everyone else forgot about the game—and Bertha. I never did. I rarely saw her after that day. When I did catch a glimpse of her all alone, I wanted desperately to tell her how sorry I was. But I was too ashamed and too young in my understanding of compassion to know how much it would mean to her.
I never saw Bertha again after junior high, and yet she has been a very important part of my life. Even today I wish that I had found the courage to be her friend. How do you say you are sorry to someone that you have never spoken to and yet hurt so deeply that more than thirty years later you cannot forget?
I finally dealt with what I had done to Bertha one Easter when I was studying about the atonement of Christ. How grateful I am to the Savior for his sacrifice and for the realization that through his wonderful gift I can finally lay that burden down and find peace and forgiveness—not that I will forget, but that I can now use the lesson to improve my life and bless others.
Because of Bertha, I have never again knowingly been unkind to anyone, and I have tried to teach my children the same. I have a special place in my heart for those who don’t seem to fit in, for those who are lonely and forgotten. Because of Bertha, it is easier for me to see beyond the surface and understand the heart of those I meet. I have tried to make it up to her by the way I treat others, but I will always wish that I could see her and say, “I’m sorry, Bertha.”

At work, Francisco Lopes (who has since married) was subjected to frequent spiritual tremors. “Some of the people I worked with were skeptical of my beliefs and criticized me for what I believed in,” he says. “They often questioned me, using science that seemed to conflict with our faith.”

Brother Lopes recalls discussions about evolution, DNA, and more. “They did their best to convince me the Church is false,” he says of the questions for which he had few answers. “I had to rely upon my testimony of God and His gospel. I am grateful for that foundation.”

Sometimes, as with Brother Lopes, members are faced with questions to which they don’t have answers. But he didn’t let something he didn’t know shake his faith in something he did know.
“There are things that I don’t know yet. But I don’t question those things because I know that in time God will reveal what I need to know,” Brother Lopes says, “not in my time or when I want it, but when He thinks that it needs to be revealed.”

What does one do when faced with tough questions that don’t seem to have answers?
“Most of our answers are in the scriptures,” says Brother Lopes, who has faced questions not only from friends and co-workers but from his parents, who questioned his decision to join the Church at age 14. “But finding and understanding those answers depends on personal revelation. I can also go to my Church leaders or ask God directly. I’m grateful for the Holy Ghost and a caring Father in Heaven.”

In 1989 there was a terrible earthquake in Armenia that killed over 30,000 people in four minutes. A distraught father went in frantic search of his son. He reached his son’s school only to find that it had been reduced to a pile of rubble. But he was driven by his promise to his son, “No matter what, I’ll always be there for you!” He visualized the corner where his son’s classroom would be, rushed there, and started to dig through the debris, brick by brick.

Others came on the scene—the fire chief, then the police—warning him of fires and explosions, and urging him to leave the search to the emergency crews. But he tenaciously carried on digging. Night came and went, and then, in the 38th hour of digging, he thought he heard his son’s voice. “Armand!” he called out. Then he heard, “Dad!?! It’s me, Dad! I told the other kids not to worry. I told ’em that if you were alive, you’d save me and when you saved me, they’d be saved. …

“There are 14 of us left out of 33. … When the building collapsed, it made a wedge, like a triangle, and it saved us.”

“Come on out, boy!”

“No, Dad! Let the other kids out first, ’cause I know you’ll get me! No matter what, I know you’ll be there for me!”

One day I was working at my kitchen sink. The window above it was wide open to let in the springtime. And I could keep an eye and ear on our preschooler son playing in the garden below. Suddenly he and the little girl he was with changed their plans of play. Mischief was surfacing. So 1 called to him to come in. He didn’t come. I called again. No response. I called a third time before I put down my dish towel and went outside to get him.
“Why didn’t you answer me?” I confronted him sternly. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of? Why didn’t you come when I called?”
And then came the punch line, “But, mom, she talked louder. Her mouth was in my ear!”
A teaching moment was at hand. I had to help him understand about voices—about loud voices and small voices, good voices and not so good ones, and about whose to listen to when. And why.
You see, our little boy ignored my voice and justified it on the basis of “her voice was louder—it was in my ear.” That was surely true. But that voice was leading him astray. He was still a child and hadn’t learned the voice-sorting process yet. He hadn’t learned to evaluate. But he wasn’t accountable yet, either. We all are. We are no longer children who see through the glass darkly. We have been baptized, confirmed by proper authority, and we have been given the gift of the Holy Ghost to help us know good from evil. The expectations for our performance are higher.

Setting time aside every week to rest, regroup and focus on my relationship with God is not something I’ve every found easy. In fact, for many years, the Sabbath was the busiest day of my week.
In 2023, my tendency to cram as much into my schedule as I could took its toll. I hit burn out hard. Trying to juggle a job with full-time study, two busy and responsible church callings, family, turbulent mental health, exercise, as well as a busy social schedule became an impossibility.
With a hitherto unprecedented dip in mental health, with pretty dangerous lows, I pushed on, trying my best to keep on top of everything I’d been doing. Because of my lack of energy, low mood and a distinct lack of motivation, things started to slip. Though I was still going full steam ahead, none of my responsibilities were carried out effectively or efficiently. So, shame heaped on top of the pile.
I prayed constantly for more energy, for things to turn around, and received no miraculous boost. Instead, I received the same response: “Keep the Sabbath holy.” I was irritated. With the attitude of a spoiled child, I took this to mean God wasn’t answering my prayer, and wasn’t offering help.
Instead of heeding the instructions given, I dug my heels in and resorted to working twice as hard, despite experiencing less than half the productivity I could usually expect.
Before long, it was obvious to a lot of people I was struggling to keep on top of everything. People at work were noticing something was up, and someone close to me, whose advice I value greatly, also suggested to me that I keep the Sabbath holy.
Embarrassingly, I was reluctant at first because I found it so counterintuitive to take a day to rest and focus on the Lord when there was so much going on. Nevertheless, after feeling a disconnect with the Spirit, especially on the Sabbath, I started following the promptings.
Almost immediately, I felt rejuvenated, my mind clearer to organise and plan my time. Intentionally keeping my focus on the Lord and His gospel on the holy day brought great blessings, temporal and spiritual.
Heavenly Father blessed me with an increase in energy, a strengthened ability to effectively manage my time, and a deepened relationship with Him and Jesus Christ. The Lord gave me a much greater appreciation for the blessing of the Sabbath, and a testimony of the words spoken by the Saviour Himself: “The Sabbath was made for man” (Mark 2:27).

At an encampment in Finland, the Scouts decided I should know how to sauna. Finns heat their saunas to 170 or 180 degrees. President Olli Roto, the stake president who was teaching me, along with the Scouts, who were experts, made a small bundle of birch branches. When we really began to perspire, he took the bundle of birch leaves and swatted me all over my back, chest, and legs, and said, “That brings the blood to the surface.” I said, “It works.” Then we ran down and dove into the Baltic Sea, then went back into the sauna. It’s amazing what we learn when we’re working with youth.

I normally would have avoided him—a worn-down man playing a game of cards at a table in the play area of a local fast-food restaurant. He had a soft smile on his sad countenance as he watched the children play. “He must be warming himself from the cold,” I thought as I passed his table to throw away my daughter’s half-eaten meal. As I noticed his table, bare of any food wrappers or paper cups, the still, small voice whispered to me, “Buy him some food.”
I returned to my table with some cash still in my pocket. “I’ll embarrass him,” I told myself. Then a feeling of peace came, and the Spirit’s sweet whispering stilled me: “Buy him some food.”
I didn’t tell my children what I was doing; I just picked up some trash and went to throw it away so I could get near the man’s table without letting my friend who I was eating with know.
I leaned in and asked, “Can I buy you some lunch?”
He looked startled and softly replied, “If you want to.”
I pulled out the small amount of cash I had left—just enough for a meal and a drink—and gave it to the man. I returned to my seat, undiscovered by the busy moms around me, and watched the man get up to buy his meal.
As I loaded my children into the car to go home, I looked through the window and saw the man carrying a tray of food back to his empty table. On his once-solemn face was a smile.
The winter breeze blowing against my face didn’t feel quite so cold. I basked in the warm, joyful Spirit that filled me from my boots to my frozen ponytail. I remembered the teaching of the Savior:
“For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink …
“Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? …
“And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:35, 37, 40).
I am thankful for the smile of a stranger that helped me find the courage to do what is right.

As an Aaronic Priesthood young man, I can remember the excitement I felt as a newly ordained deacon. I looked forward to being able to fulfill my priesthood assignments. As a young Primary boy, I watched the deacons in my ward very closely in anticipation of the day I would be 12 years old, receive the priesthood, and be able to pass the sacrament. That day finally arrived, and soon after being ordained by my father, who was the bishop of the ward, I felt ready, but nervous, to begin my duties as a new deacon.
I now belonged to a quorum of the Aaronic Priesthood. The members of my quorum became very best friends. That friendship and quorum brotherhood continued to grow through my youth as we learned and served together in our priesthood duties. We were all good friends and experienced a fun and enjoyable time being together in our quorum activities.
One Sunday following one of those warm and long sacrament meetings, the first counselor in our bishopric called me aside to talk to me. This unscheduled priesthood interview became a blessing in my life as I have pondered the question he asked during our brief but significant visit. Brother Bateman looked me in the eye and asked, “Dean, do you know who you are?” There was complete silence, and then he gave me a quick and powerful reminder, “You are the son of Reid Burgess.”
The meaning and significance of that question has burned in my heart for a long time, and I often reflected on it throughout my teenage years. This good brother’s question—“Do you know who you are?”—has given me inspired direction throughout my life and a commitment to bring respect and honor to my family and to the priesthood.

When I was 17, my grandmother said something that completely changed the way I viewed marriage.
We were chatting and making dinner for a large family gathering while my grandfather was out getting last-minute supplies. At one point, Grandfather called to discuss something errand related. Their exchange was quick and ordinary, and I didn’t think much of it. But after Grandmother ended the call, she turned to me and said in her matter-of-fact way, “He’s a wonderful man. I really like him.” Then she turned back around to keep working on dinner.
Rarely have words struck me that deeply, and I still think of them often.

Photographs by Christina Smith
I thought I was going for a short weekend trip to visit my family during a brother’s wedding. But when my wife, Etelani, dropped me off at the airport, handed me a packed suitcase, and told me to stay with my parents until I was ready to be a husband, I knew things had become serious. I would have to make drastic changes in my life.
As I watched her drive away, little did I know how much she hurt. She told me later that she then drove to a safe place to park along the road, where she sobbed. I hadn’t realized how much my behavior—drinking and doing drugs—was hurting her, and I didn’t realize how much it was hurting me.
We both grew up in Samoa, where we met. My family joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was in high school. But the commandments got in the way of my lifestyle and the parties I liked to attend. By the time the other members of my family were sealed in the temple, I was not active in the Church and made every excuse to stay away from Church activities.
After Etelani and I got married, we moved to Seattle, Washington, where my family lived. Then we moved away from them to Utah. There, Etelani tried desperately to help me change my ways.
Often, I would be gone for a week or two at a time drinking and partying while she remained at home, not knowing where I was. She hurt deeply, realizing she could not change me. These were dark and painful days for her. She became despondent, riddled with pangs of insecurity. She wondered if my unruly actions stemmed from her inability to bear children.
“If we are meant to stay together,” she prayed to Heavenly Father, “then please help me know what to do.”
The Spirit prompted her to act when my parents called to announce that one of my brothers was getting married. The day Etelani dropped me off at the airport, she said, “I think this is a good time for us to be separated.” As it turned out, it was 10 months before we got back together.
My parents and siblings were active members of the Church. My mother was strong in her testimony and was aware of my situation. During the 10 months I lived with my parents, she gave me kind and gentle invitations to join the family at church and church activities, and she reminded me of the importance of being sealed to Etelani in the temple. Those simple invitations, and being surrounded by my family’s love, helped me return to church.
While Etelani was in Utah, working overtime hours to distract her from her sadness, I was undergoing a transformation brought about by my mother’s love and the Savior’s atoning grace.
I had tried many times over the years to kick my bad habits, but I never could. In the past, I had used every excuse to stay away from church, but now as I confronted the loss of my wife, I knew I had to change.
Change wasn’t easy. “Who am I to be saved?” I wondered. In the past, I had tried to change by myself. Alone, I couldn’t beat my habits, but with help from Heavenly Father and His Son, along with the scriptures, fasting and prayer, the sacrament, and repentance, I knew I could change. Becoming involved in the Church and exercising faith in Jesus Christ changed my heart and my way of thinking (see Mosiah 5:7; Alma 5:12–13). I soon found that I could do things I couldn’t do before.
With steadiness, over time I came to feel the Savior’s mercy. He was aware of Etelani and me. I felt that He loved us. His love changed my appetites. I no longer obsessed over past indulgences. When I finally had a testimony of the gospel, I wanted to be with Etelani again.
When she saw that I held a steady job and had saved money for a place to live, she joined me in Seattle. She still wanted us. After I had demonstrated that my devotion to her and the gospel was real, we adopted a daughter. Having a child helped me commit to the changes I had made. I knew I had to be a good father for her. I liked where I was heading, and I wanted to take my family with me. I was sealed to my parents. Etelani and I adopted a son. And we have been sealed in the temple as a family. God has been good to us.
Tony with his son, Tony Jr.
Having gone through the refiner’s fire, I know from firsthand experience that the Savior can change us. But first, we must get close to Him. You’ll be amazed at what He can do. Feeling His divine love can lead to sincere repentance, and that can change you—no matter how far you have fallen.
I’m grateful for a second chance. I’m grateful for the gospel. I’m grateful the Savior brought me back. And I’m grateful He helped me become a better husband to my wife and father to my children.
If we have faith in the Savior and trust in Him, we will be surprised at the changes He can make in us.
Tony remains grateful the Lord helped him become a better husband to his wife, Etelani, and father to his children, Tony Jr. and Prelain.

Because of a drought, my husband, John, and I had to either sell our beef cattle at a loss or move them from the Melba Valley, in southwestern Idaho, USA. Fortunately, John found summer range at a cousin’s family farm, located in the Preston area, about 300 miles (480 km) away.
We arranged for a trucker to take all 40 cattle in one load, but he didn’t like the looks of a rough ranch road that led to the cattle pasture, still 20 miles (32 km) away. To our disappointment, he unloaded them at nearby stockyards. There we were, late in the day with 40 head of cattle to transport and no way to do it.
John stopped a local farmer, explained our plight, and asked for help. Minutes later Bishop Steve Meeks and his young son followed us to the stockyards to see what could be done.
The cattle had become unsettled. Seeing a broken section of fence at the stockyard, they ran toward it, seeking freedom. All the cattle hurdled the fence into another enclosure—except for one cow. She managed to get most of the way over, but one hind leg slipped between two fence planks. She ended up hanging precariously on the fence, one front foot barely touching the ground. She kicked her other hind leg furiously in an effort to free herself.
Releasing the cow would require hoisting equipment. If she broke a leg, we would have to put her down. To lose a cow would put considerable financial strain on us.
The cow weighed more than 1,000 pounds (455 kg), and we could not get near her, nor help her if we did. The havoc on the fence made the rest of the cattle nervous.
I didn’t think there was anything we could do, but at that moment I remembered Amulek’s counsel in the Book of Mormon: “Cry unto him when ye are in your fields, yea, over all your flocks” (Alma 34:20). I withdrew myself from the others, knelt down, and prayed with all the sincerity of my heart. Concluding my supplication, I pleaded, “Heavenly Father, please help the cow.”
I returned to the corral, the prayer still lingering on my lips. By now the cattle had quieted somewhat, including the one on the fence.
Suddenly, the largest of the milling animals broke away from the herd. Resisting our efforts to turn her back, she moved toward the dangling cow. Lowering her head, she dropped to her knees, forced her way under the stranded cow, and staggered slowly to her feet. She lifted the tangled cow into the air and then lowered her. The cow was free! A hoist could not have done as well.
As the two cows ran back to the herd, Bishop Meeks stared in disbelief at what he had just witnessed. My tears flowed as I whispered, “Thank You, Heavenly Father.”
Anyone who knows cattle will tell you that cows do not reason things out in their minds. But there is an explanation for this incident. Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. He answered mine—at a stockyard in Preston, Idaho.

The fact that Apii is alive is part of the reason her family joined the Church. When she was eight years old, she was desperately ill with asthma. Missionaries gave her a blessing, and she was healed literally moments later. “I was really weak,” says Apii. “I couldn’t do anything. I hadn’t been able to eat or drink. As soon as the missionaries said amen, I was all right. I opened my eyes and asked for something to drink. Everybody sort of laughed because they were so relieved. I concentrated on the blessing. I knew it would make me better. I was about nine years old when we joined the Church.”

My mom is the genealogist in our family. She’s researched over 10 generations of our family line, taught herself to read German, and has an abundance of knowledge about the cultural traditions of different time periods.
I, on the other hand, have never been good at history, and I’ve always been content to let other people do our family history work. However, my reluctance changed one Sunday in July.
My priests quorum adviser, Brother Holland, who is famous for his homemade wheat bread, gave the entire priests quorum a challenge: “If you go home and index 100 names through FamilySearch by the end of the night, I will bake you an entire loaf of bread.”
The first thing I did when I got home was to access the indexing tool at FamilySearch.org/indexing. When I downloaded the first batch, I met my first set of problems. First, the handwriting on the records was hard to read and sometimes unintelligible. The second and much more serious problem was that I couldn’t read cursive. Luckily, with the help of the Internet, I worked my way carefully through the first few names until I got the hang of it. Reading and writing the names started to go faster.
I tried to picture in my mind the families as I input their names. I saw families from all over the world—from Italy, Ireland, Germany, and more. When I read their names, I felt like I somehow knew them. When I came across a name I couldn’t read, I didn’t give up. I thought of every possibility and even searched the Internet for what it might be. I wanted to get it right.
It wasn’t too long before I finished my 100 names. I called Brother Holland and reported that I had completed the task. Later, I got my loaf of bread. The next week, he made the same offer. I went home and indexed more names, but this time I didn’t report it. I realized that I wanted to do it—not because I wanted bread, but because I genuinely wanted to help the people I was recording. I wanted their descendants to be able to find them and help them. It was a great feeling to be a part—even just a small part—of family history work.