Gospel Story Finder

“Come in for prayer,” called Angela, summoning everyone in for our family’s nightly routine.
“This won’t take very long,” I thought as I rolled out from under the snug blanket where I had been reading.
I walked down the hall to my parents’ room, where everyone was gathering. While we were waiting for everyone to settle down, my mother reached behind her and grabbed a handful of pistachios from a bag sitting on the cedar chest.
“Wait a second!” cried Corinne. “Where’s some for the rest of us?”
“Don’t worry,” my mom assured her, “sharing is exactly what I plan to do.” And without hesitation, she proceeded to divvy out the handful of nuts. With a smile she exclaimed, “Call it a blessing for participating in family prayer!”
We liked the idea. We liked it even better when mom reached behind her a second time, returning now with more than just a handful of nuts. She plopped the whole bag down in the middle of the bed we were gathered around.
We spent several happy minutes breaking open salty pistachios and talking. Our conversation became boisterous and enthusiastic as we chatted and snacked away.
The nuts were soon gone but our conversation continued. We probably talked for half an hour. During this time, no one complained about family prayer taking so long. No one complained about being tired or wanting to go to bed. We were so happy to be together and content to continue talking.
At that moment, I realized that Heavenly Father had blessed us for participating in family prayer. The blessing wasn’t like the physical strength a bunch of pistachios could offer—it was more nourishing. The blessing was the opportunity to grow closer together as a family, and really, though I love pistachios, it was far more satisfying.
After we prayed together, I wandered back to my room to read a little more before calling it a night. I’d just opened my book when the sound of laughter wafted in from my parents’ room where two of my sisters continued to joke and tease my parents. I smiled and returned to my book. Who could have predicted the powerful impact of a simple mix of family prayer and pistachios?

As I walked through the door of the Relief Society room, I avoided meeting the gaze of any of the sisters by pretending to look intently at a fly resting on the piano. Glancing up to see how far back I could sit, I spied a seat on the last row, deep in the corner. I sat down and began to thumb through my scriptures, hoping my studious appearance would help me avoid making eye contact. My mother had been my Young Women leader for four years and was still in Young Women as I, now 18, moved on to Relief Society. Suddenly my peers changed from Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels to ladies my mother’s age.
As women filed through the door, I recognized all their faces, yet they seemed unfamiliar in this setting. Sister Pratt had taught me in seminary; Sister Caton used to teach my Sunday School class; I often babysat Sister Bent’s children. How could I ever relate to these women who had so much more life experience than I did?
The chatter began to die down as the clock ticked closer to the start of the meeting. Nobody sat by me. The empty seats surrounding me began to feel like a force field that was keeping me from joining the fellowship and camaraderie the others seemed to share.
I began shifting in my chair, wishing I could go back to the Young Women room to girls with whom I shared interests, friends, experiences, and the same decade of birth. Suddenly my “force field” was penetrated by a whisper in front of me.
“Heidi,” Sister Pratt said.
I looked up to see her beckoning me to sit by her.
“Come sit with us.”
I smiled as a rush of relief swept over me. Although I had chosen to sit alone, I was now grateful for the invitation to be included.
“Don’t ever try to sit on the back row again,” she said with a wink, as I sat down beside her.
Each week this wonderful warmth was repeated over and over again as other caring sisters invited me to sit with them until I felt truly loved by these sisters. It wasn’t long before I didn’t need to wait for an invitation.
I began to reach out to these sisters, just as they had reached out to me. I let their love engulf me and penetrate the wall I had built. I no longer felt a sense of dread as I entered the Relief Society room. These women with whom I had felt nothing in common soon became more than just sisters; they became my friends. I felt a part of the fold.

A few months prior to the start of my service as a full-time missionary for the Church, I was diagnosed with vocal nodules. Nodules are calluses that develop on your vocal cords as a result of consistent and overwhelming friction. Fortunately, I was still able to start my mission.
Then, three months into my mission, I went in for a checkup. I learned there was a bleed on my vocal cord and that I would be on almost complete vocal rest for the next eight months.
I started my vocal rest immediately. I would avoid talking each day until about 3:00 p.m., using sign language to communicate with my companion. After that, I would talk only when absolutely necessary. We made social media missionary work a much bigger part of our daily schedule, and my companion took the lead in all contacts and teaching appointments.
But as the vocal rest continued, instead of feeling better, I felt even more intense burning in my throat nearly all the time. I had to save the few words I could speak for special occasions, and my world grew very lonely. I hardly felt like myself anymore. The outgoing, bubbly, 20-year-old girl I was just a few short weeks earlier was now quiet, reserved, and struggling to know how she fit in. I found myself crying multiple times a day. As each unspoken thought or feeling was swallowed in silence, I was losing myself.
On one particular occasion, I felt more darkness than usual and prayed for some glimmer of hope. It was then that the words to one of my favorite hymns came to mind:
There is music in my soul today,
A carol to my King,
And Jesus listening can hear
The songs I cannot sing.1
I was immediately struck by the last phrase and overwhelmed with the love my Savior has for me. I knew in that moment that I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t invisible. And I certainly wasn’t forgotten.
One of my favorite phrases from the scriptures is “song of the heart” (Doctrine and Covenants 25:12). I realized I didn’t need my physical voice to be heard by Heavenly Father and by the Savior. They are always listening to every thought, prayer, heartache, and question, whether spoken out loud or not. I thought I was losing myself because I couldn’t speak, but without a word having ever been uttered, the songs sung by a silent, struggling young girl—the songs of my heart—rose to heaven and brought peace to my soul.
Although I have yet to receive my healing miracle, I have been empowered by the advice of President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) to “be patient, do your part, and express gratitude for the smallest improvement noted.”2 With every step in the right direction, I feel reassured that “this too shall pass.” In the last few months, I’ve been able to end my vocal rest earlier in the afternoon and talk with less pain.
I do not know when I will receive complete physical healing, but I have seen emotional healing come in many different ways. I’ve learned that the key to overcoming hardship is maintaining a close and direct relationship with God. This includes not only praying but also being quiet long enough to hear His voice. Instead of asking, “Why?” I started asking, “What did my trial give me today?” As I did, I began to see traces of God all around me.
Because of my trial, I have learned the importance of slowing down and connecting with my heavenly roots. I have also been blessed to appreciate more fully the musical gifts and abilities of others. Not being able to speak has allowed me to listen more to others and deepen my compassion for them. On the other hand, I have been reminded of the strength that comes from letting others help me.
Throughout my physical trials, I’ve come to learn that hope is not crossing our fingers or holding our breath for a desired outcome. Hope is not hanging on until we see the light at the end of the tunnel. Hope is the lantern we carry on our way through. It is what helps us move forward and shows us that we are not walking alone but with Heavenly Father and the Savior every step of the way.

While my friend and I were riding scooters around the neighborhood, he accidentally tripped over a rock, fell off his scooter, and landed on his back. Luckily we were by another friend’s house, so I helped my hurt friend over there and rang the doorbell. Steven came to the door and said, “What’s wrong, William?”
“Well, Michael here fell off his scooter and landed on his back,” I answered. I asked if his mom was home and he said yes. So I took Michael inside.
Steven’s mom looked at his back. She said that it was only a bruise. In five minutes he felt much better. I know that Jesus would help His friends too.

Nina watched as Sister Kelly struggled to pick up the toys her baby had scattered during sacrament meeting.
Sister Kelly was going to have a new baby soon, and Nina figured it must be hard for her to move around. She wondered how Sister Kelly managed to take care of Emily, especially since Brother Kelly had to travel a lot for his job.
The Kellys had moved into a house down the street from Nina a few months ago. Sister Kelly waved to her each afternoon as she walked home from middle school. Sometimes she stopped and played with two-year-old Emily for a few minutes.
Nina stooped now and began to gather up the toys and put them into the diaper bag.
“Thank you, Nina,” Sister Kelly said, standing with a sigh. “It’s getting harder and harder to bend over.” She smiled as she patted her rounded stomach, but her smile looked tired rather than happy.
How does Sister Kelly take care of Emily? Nina wondered. But what can I do? I’m only eleven years old. I have school all day and homework after that.
Nina thought about it all during Primary. When a girl in her Valiant class told a story about President Spencer W. Kimball,* Nina listened intently.
When the prophet had been waiting in an airport, he noticed a young, pregnant mother struggling to urge her child along in the line. She nudged the toddler along with her foot but didn’t pick her up. Other passengers whispered and pointed at her, but no one offered to help. President Kimball picked up the crying child and comforted her. The woman told him that because of orders from her doctor, she could not lift her child.
Only President Kimball had recognized that the young mother needed help. Only he had offered that help. Never once did he judge her, as the other passengers had.
A wave of pure knowledge swept through Nina, and she knew exactly what to do and how to do it. She spent a lot of time talking on the phone with her friends and watching TV at night. If she gave up those things, she’d have plenty of time to help Sister Kelly for a few hours each day. She could do her homework after the supper dishes were done.
She found her mother after church and explained her plan.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Mom gave Nina a quick hug. “I’ll fix a casserole and send it over. If I double the recipe, they can freeze half of it and have it another night, as well.”
Nina found Sister Kelly after church. Her eyes looked tired, and faint lines creased the corners of her mouth.
“Sister Kelly, may I come over and play with Emily after school for a couple of hours? Oh, and Mom wants to bring a casserole.”
A single tear tracked down Sister Kelly’s cheek. Then another.
Nina didn’t know what to do. Then she remembered that when Mom was expecting her little brother, Jared, she had cried really easily. Nina reached out to touch Sister Kelly’s shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Something is right!” Sister Kelly dug in her purse for a tissue, then wiped away her tears. She hugged Nina. “I’m crying because I’ve been praying for someone just like you.” The tears fell faster. “You’re an answer to my prayers.”
Nina felt tears well up in her own eyes. “Does Emily like to play with puzzles? My little brother has some wooden ones that he’s outgrown. Maybe I could bring them with me.”
“Emily loves to do puzzles.” Sister Kelly found another tissue and handed it to Nina. “Would you like to come to the nursery with me and tell her the news?”
“I sure would!”
Nina could hardly wait until the next afternoon.

Samuel Clement Onawo’s success story was written by Bishop Ashidike Cletus of Shasha Ward, Egbeda Stake in Lagos.
I met Samuel Clement Onawo when I was serving as the first counselor in the bishopric some years ago. That was in the Akowonjo Ward. He came into the chapel one morning with another friend. Both wanted to investigate the Church. He was reserved, humble, and very eager to honestly learn the gospel.
We had some wonderful experiences that made us feel he was a promising young man. Bishop Joseph Okoronkwo took a special interest in him. Samuel got baptized weeks later in 2010.
During one of our interactions with him, it was discovered that he could not read, hence we encouraged him to attend a literacy class, which he did vigorously. He gained tremendous knowledge from the literacy class. Some months later, he indicated an interest to serve a full-time mission. There was no money to pursue this noble cause, so he decided to do any menial or domestic job to save for his pre-mission requirements. He saved as much as he could and went on a mission in 2014.
As a returned missionary, his record was found in my unit and this time I had been called to serve as the bishop of the newly created Shasha Ward. On the 29th of May 2016, he was called as the ward mission leader. I have always used him as a reference point whenever I want to share a good story.
One day, he came to talk to me about a PEF [Perpetual Education Fund] loan. l was glad to have him ask for it because I knew he was going to meet up with the requirements before and after. I gave him my full support and he got the loan.
Today, he has graduated as an electrical engineer. I attended his graduation ceremony in December 2018. He is one of the best among those who took the loan, and Brother Adebayo of the PEF management in Nigeria has not had the occasion to seek repayment. His monthly repayment was always on time.
He feels he can afford to settle down for a family life and take responsibility because he has acquired skills and education. This has been achieved already. We all see him in my unit as a progressing young man with a profound spirit of gratitude.

Russell carefully packed his two pencils and his notebook in his schoolbag. He combed his hair and checked to make sure his clothes looked nice. After giving his mom a hug good-bye, he ran to the bus stop. He felt like he would burst if the bus didn’t come soon. He was excited to start school for the first time.
Every year, Russell had watched his older brothers and sisters walk to the bus stop, where they got on the bus for school. He wanted to ride the bus with them. Even more, he wanted to learn the things they did. He wanted to learn more about dinosaurs. He wanted to know how trains worked. He wanted to learn to read. He just knew he was going to like school.
Russell’s teacher, Mrs. Wilson, smiled when he walked into the classroom. She showed Russell where his desk was. She also showed him where to hang his schoolbag.
“Maybe we’ll learn about dinosaurs first,” Russell thought.
“Welcome to school,” Mrs. Wilson said. “We’re going to introduce ourselves and tell something about ourselves.”
Russell frowned. “Well, we should get to know everyone,” he thought. “Maybe we’ll learn about dinosaurs afterward.”
When it was Russell’s turn to introduce himself, he said, “I’m Russell. I am excited to learn everything—especially about trains and dinosaurs.”
“That’s great, Russell,” Mrs. Wilson said. Russell smiled. He was sure they’d be learning about trains and dinosaurs soon.
But they didn’t. They ate a snack and played with blocks shaped like circles, triangles, and squares.
“Mrs. Wilson, when are we going to learn about dinosaurs and trains?” Russell asked.
“Not right now, Russell,” she said. “Now it’s time to read a story.”
“Is it about dinosaurs?”
“No, Russell.”
After the story they learned about the alphabet. Then it was time to go home.
Russell was mad.
He frowned out the window on the bus. He ran home from the bus stop and stormed through the front door. He ran into his room and buried his head in a blanket.
Mom came in and put her hand on Russell’s head. “How was your first day?” she asked.
“Terrible. I’m never going to learn anything, and I’m not going back. All we did today was play with blocks and read stories.”
“Well, Russell, it’s just your first day,” Mom said.
Russell sat up and looked at Mom. “I want to learn about dinosaurs and trains and reading—now.”
Mom sat next to Russell on the bed. “You can’t learn everything at once. Learning takes time. And the more you learn now, the more you’ll be able to learn later.”
“What do you mean?” Russell asked.
“Well, you need to learn the alphabet before you can learn to read. And you need to learn to read before you can read about the things you’re interested in,” she said.
Russell thought about it. Maybe there were other things to learn about than only dinosaurs and trains. “Well, I guess I’ll try school again tomorrow,” he said.
Mom smiled at him.
“But, Mom, do you think we could get a book from the library about dinosaurs?”
“I definitely think we can do that.”

Seppo paced restlessly up and down the small pier. One by one the lights in the old farmhouse winked out, and then a lantern bobbed along the path to the boat landing. It was early, this Saturday morning in December, and dark. Winter with its long nights would soon come to Finland.
Father, Mother, little sister Eila, and Seppo climbed into their boat and cast off. They were on their way to the market square by the harbor in Helsinki to sell their wares.
“What a load we have this morning,” said Mother above the sound of the chugging motor. “Potatoes, bunches of birch leaves, and cranberries that Eila and Seppo picked yesterday!”
“And Mother’s great bundle of weaving,” said Father as he guided the large motorboat over the dark waters and through the clusters of little islands toward Helsinki. “One more rug and one more tablecloth, and there would have been no room for Eila and Seppo!”
“Oh, but we had to come today,” insisted Seppo. “This is the day I buy my new skis.”
When the Gulf of Finland froze each winter, Seppo would ski over the ice to school on the mainland. Every February he entered the ski-day race. However, his skis had been broken, so all summer and through the fall Seppo had worked for neighboring farmers to earn the money to buy new skis in Helsinki. This year he felt sure that he would win the race.
“And this is the day I buy my special candle for Independence Day,” said Eila, who had saved all the money she had earned by gathering birch leaves for Father to sell. December sixth is Independence Day in Finland and candles glow in every window to mark this special day. Eila’s heart was set on having the most beautiful candle she could find in Stockmann’s Department Store.
Father steered the boat into the south harbor, past the piers for the large ships and ferryboats, and into their own spot by the harbor’s edge. When Father hopped out and began to tie up the boat, some men were already putting up the stalls and orange canopies in the marketplace. The dome of the big white cathedral gleamed through the early morning mist.
“Seppo, will you please carry this roll of rugs to my stall?” asked Mother. “You will have time before the stores open to help me set up.”
Seppo, his arms clasping the bulky bundle, waited for Eila to climb out of the boat and onto the stone steps at the harbor’s edge. The boat was bobbing up and down, for a brisk wind was making the water choppy. Eila moved slowly, holding her purse in one hand.
“Hurry up, Eila, these rugs are heavy!” Seppo said crossly.
Eila turned her head to answer, and almost lost her balance. She grabbed the edge of the boat to steady herself, and her purse flew out of her hand into the water.
“My money!” wailed Eila, as Father snatched an oar from the boat and poked it down through the water to see if he could rescue the purse.
“I’m afraid it’s gone,” he said finally. “I’m sorry, little girl.” Gently he helped Eila out of the boat and Seppo followed with the bundle of weaving. Seppo, Eila, and Mother trudged along in silence to the stall, while Father stayed in the boat with the cranberries, birch leaves, and potatoes.
Mother quickly arranged the rag rugs, tablecloths, and mats. She put on her special gloves that left her fingertips bare for handling small coins. Mrs. Salonen, who sold birchbark baskets in the stall next to Mother’s, also wore gloves this chilly morning.
After Seppo had brought his mother and Mrs. Salonen hot possu (doughnuts) from a nearby stall, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I’ll go now and buy my skis. Want to come along, Eila?”
Eila shook her head. “I can’t go now. Mrs. Salonen is paying me one mark to help her,” she said, sighing. “Then I can buy a tiny candle, and wait till next year for a special one. A year isn’t so long,” she added, trying to smile, but Seppo knew she was near tears.
He turned and walked rapidly out of the market square, hardly noticing the people he passed, who were bundled up in their fur hats and heavy coats. Instead, he kept seeing Eila’s horrified face as her carefully saved money sank out of sight. An uncomfortable thought began to nag Seppo: If I hadn’t tried to hurry Eila out of the boat …
In the store the clerk greeted him. “Aha, you are in luck. The skis that you have been admiring all fall are still here!”
Seppo touched the skis and looked at them for a long time. Their bright blue enameled surface gleamed in the electric light. He knew that Finland’s best skiers used skis exactly like these when they won their races.
Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, Seppo seemed to hear Eila saying, “A year isn’t so long.”
“Just a moment,” Seppo said as the clerk started to remove the championship skis from the rack. “I think … I think,” he said, pointing to a cheaper pair of hickory skis just like the ones he had broken, “I’ll take these other skis instead.”
Anyway, reasoned Seppo as he rushed back to the marketplace, if I’m going to win the race, it’s more important to use the right wax and to keep practicing than to worry about the kind of skis I have.
After he had carefully stored his new skis in Father’s boat, Seppo went to Mrs. Salonen’s stall. A sad-faced Eila was still stacking baskets.
“Could you spare Eila to go with me for a little while?” he asked the older woman. “We have an important errand to do at Stockmann’s.”
Mrs. Salonen nodded her assent.
“Stockmann’s, Seppo?” Eila asked as she hurried to catch up with her brother.
“Yes, come on,” Seppo encouraged, “before someone else buys your special candle!”
And this time Eila, her eyes shining, needed no urging.

As a youth in the Netherlands, I had the opportunity to spend two weeks working with the full-time sister missionaries. I expected two weeks of hard work—and a lot of fun.
Before that time, I knew that I had a Heavenly Father and He loved me. But during those two weeks I thought about Him and His work 24 hours a day; even as I slept, I dreamed about missionary work.
Despite my enthusiasm, the first couple of days were hard work—without much success. By the end of the first week I was exhausted, spiritually and emotionally. That night, I read the Book of Mormon all evening. When I went to bed, I had a warm and good feeling, and I knew Heavenly Father would give me the courage to keep trying after every closed door.
In the days that followed, there continued to be more negative than positive responses. But if there was only one person a day who would listen, it made the day worthwhile.
One day I telephoned a lady who had investigated the Church for four years. Over the phone, she told me she didn’t need the Book of Mormon because she had found a “more beautiful book.” When we went to her house, my companion and I hoped we could convince her to give the Book of Mormon another chance. She showed us parts of her book dealing with charity and pride, and she looked at us as if to say, That isn’t written in your book, is it?
Fortunately, I had studied the Book of Mormon in seminary that year, and I knew of some scriptures on those subjects. I soon found them and started to read. I explained them to her in a way I had not known I was capable of.
When I finished, she had tears in her eyes. She said she had intended to give her copy of the Book of Mormon back to us, but now she had decided to try reading this most beautiful book—the Book of Mormon—again.

When President Hinckley said to read the Book of Mormon, I told Mom that I would do it. She wasn’t sure I could, but I worked really hard, reading whenever I had time. Some nights I stayed up reading with Mom. I finished three weeks before my eighth birthday. My dad showed me a special scripture in Moroni that says to pray about the Book of Mormon and ask if it’s true. When I read the Book of Mormon I felt the Spirit, and I was so happy when I finished it. I hope you’ll be happy when you finish it too.

One need look no further than to the many missionaries who have labored in that part of the world, who in obedience to the Lord accepted a call from His prophet to serve a mission. It was said by the Apostle Peter long ago that Jesus went about doing good. As His ambassadors, missionaries in our generation have gone and continue to go throughout the world doing good in the true spirit of the Master. Let me describe one of them. He is typical of so many others who sincerely desire to serve the Lord.
He came from California and grew up in an ordinary sort of way, not a member of the Church. He became acquainted with a girl who was a member of the Church. He was so impressed with her that, on learning that she was a member of the Church, he wished to know more. Latter-day Saint students at the university taught him the gospel while he was completing a difficult scholastic program. He was baptized. Then, working nights and summers, he saved money enough to sustain him, if he spent it with care, for a period of eighteen months as a missionary. He was called to Guatemala. He was a handsome young man with a brilliant mind and a wonderful education in a highly technical field. I met him in the Guatemala City Temple. He grasped my hand warmly. I asked, “Are you happy?”
“Oh yes, so very happy,” he responded. I asked where he was working as a missionary. He said, “Out among the Lamanites, the native people of Guatemala. It is a very small place where there is much hardship, but the people are wonderful, and I love them.”
As I have thought of that tall and handsome young man, gifted and educated, working among the Indians of Guatemala in a jungle village, I have remembered the words of Samuel the Lamanite:
“Yea, I say unto you, that in the latter times the promises of the Lord have been extended to our brethren, the Lamanites; and notwithstanding the many afflictions which they shall have, and notwithstanding they shall be driven to and fro upon the face of the earth, and be hunted, and shall be smitten and scattered abroad, having no place for refuge, the Lord shall be merciful unto them.
“And this is according to the prophecy, that they shall again be brought to the true knowledge, which is the knowledge of their Redeemer, and their great and true shepherd, and be numbered among his sheep.” (Hel. 15:12–13.)
This young missionary, with his associates, was bringing to those among whom he walked “the true knowledge, which is the knowledge of their Redeemer, and their great and true shepherd,” that they might be numbered among His sheep.
This particular young man received no letters from his parents, no money, no encouragement. He had sufficient money, which he had saved, to support himself for eighteen months. Because his mission was ending when we were lengthening missions from eighteen months to twenty-four, he had the option of remaining an additional six months. He asked his mission president with emotion, “Is there some way I can get help to stay another six months to work among these people I have come to love so much?” A person was found to help pay for his expenses, and the missionary was able to serve a full twenty-four months.
There are others like him, thousands today working in many lands, who, in the spirit of the Lord, are going about doing great good.

Having entered the university’s medical school in 1944, Russell completed the four-year course in three years. Then followed an internship at the University of Minnesota Hospital where, in addition to the normal surgical training, he began a program leading to the Ph.D. degree. He also became part of a team that received a five-year research grant to develop a machine that would take over the functions of a patient’s heart and lungs while the heart was being surgically repaired. The challenges were enormous, but after nearly three years of labor it was ready for use. In 1951 it was used for the first time in an open-heart operation on a human being.

“The decision I made to go on a mission was the greatest one I made in my life,” says BYU’s star forward, Mike Smith. “I decided to go when I was pretty young, so that I wouldn’t be influenced later when the pressure was on,” he added.
And the pressure did come. Mike was dubbed one of the best players to come out of any California high school and was recruited by many large universities. He chose BYU, and in his freshman year, he started 27 of 31 games. It didn’t bother him at all to leave his sports career behind for a couple of years.
There were those who didn’t understand, however. One man in particular, a long-time fan of Mike’s from his hometown of Hacienda Heights, California, couldn’t fathom why Mike would run the risk of sacrificing his career to serve a mission. Mike wrote his non-LDS friend a letter from the mission field in which he bore his testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel, the Book of Mormon, and the prophet of the Church. Mike also told him he felt it was a privilege rather than a sacrifice to serve. His friend was so touched by Mike’s testimony that he took the letter to a local Catholic priest, who happened to be interested in Mike’s basketball career too. The priest, in turn, read the letter in mass every day for a week, saying it was an example of a youth who was doing all he could to serve the Lord.
“Nothing that happens on the basketball court can compare with experiences in the mission field,” Mike explains. “The feelings you experience on the basketball court are so limited, so temporary. You can make a game-winning shot and the fans love you, but the next play you dribble it off your foot and that great feeling is gone. But the feelings that come over you out in the mission field, where the Spirit touches your heart, you’ll never forget.”

I learned this lesson in a very personal and powerful way.

About a year and a half ago, I was being pushed harder than ever—professionally, personally, and academically. Work, graduate school, family, and Church responsibilities all piled up. I often felt like I was in pure survival mode.

During that time, I often thought about going to the temple. But every time, I felt overwhelmed. I couldn’t imagine carving out that much time. Surely the Lord understood my heart, I reasoned. Surely, He knew that some of the demands on my time were out of my control. I rationalized. I justified. I convinced myself that I was doing the best I could.

With that backdrop, my husband suggested a quick getaway to Logan, Utah. The thought of stepping away, slowing down, and catching my breath sounded exactly like what I needed. But then he told me that he had made a temple appointment for Saturday morning. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t thrilled. The thought of giving up a leisurely morning was not what I had in mind.

Still, I got up, put on a dress, and we drove to the Logan Temple. When we arrived, the parking lot was packed. We circled once—no luck. Twice—still nothing. Even the street parking was gone. By the third time around, I was convinced this was a sign. Maybe attending the temple wasn’t in our best interest after all.

And then, right in front of the temple, a spot opened up. My husband quickly pulled in and hopped out, excited about our front-row blessing. As I gathered my things, I heard him talking to someone at the front of our car. It was then that I heard the voice. It was our own President Meredith.

There, in Logan, far from home, stood the university president, a General Authority, a husband, and a father, with all the time demands those roles entailed. And where was he? At the temple, putting first things first.

That moment pierced my heart. I walked into the temple humbled, repentant, and grateful. I don’t know if the Lord could have placed anyone else in my path who would have had such an impact. But through that tender mercy, I was reminded, no matter how busy we are or what competes for our time, we still need to put Him first, and we are accountable to Him for following the first great commandment.

I was called to serve in the New Zealand Wellington Mission. When I knew I needed to go home early, I felt like I had let Heavenly Father and my parents down.
I’ve learned so much from my mission and from this situation. I never needed to rely on Heavenly Father and the Savior’s Atonement like I did when I came home early. I needed to trust God and accept whatever He wanted me to go through and learn. I cannot deny the power of the Atonement and how I’ve truly come to know that Jesus Christ is my Savior. I’ve learned that God humbles me and teaches me through my weaknesses and hard times.
No matter where I am, or whether I have a name tag on my chest, I’m still a disciple of Jesus Christ. I know that the Lord still loves me and is with me, and He wants me to keep serving others. And even though I’m home, I know I’m not a failure because He’s helped me become a better person through this experience.
Natasha Krisanalome, Thailand

My dad had been doing a lot of family history work. I loved hearing about my ancestors who were pioneers, ancestors who fought in the American Revolutionary War, and ancestors who had been kings and knights in Europe.
“How would you like to come to the Family History Library with me on Saturday?” Dad asked one day.
“Sure!” I couldn’t wait to see for myself the royal names on our pedigree chart.
We arrived in Salt Lake City and enjoyed the summer morning sunshine as we walked to the library. I became more and more excited the closer we got. There inside that big building were the names and stories of my own family—pioneers, soldiers, knights, and all.
Once inside, Dad pulled up a couple of chairs in front of a computer. We sat down, and he began navigating through databases to show me where our family tied into a royal line.
“Hmmm.” His forehead furrowed. “I can’t seem to find it today,” he finally said.
I was very disappointed. We spent the rest of the morning looking through books that held stories of my pioneer ancestors. I enjoyed that too, but I still wanted to learn about my other ancestors.
“Don’t worry,” Dad said. “We’ll come back next weekend.”
The week flew by, and soon Dad and I were sitting in front of a computer in the Family History Library again. This time, Dad said, “Aha! Found it.”
He scrolled through names of kings and queens from all over Europe recorded there in my family history! There were so many names and dates that it would take many days to get them all into our family history software. “We’ll have to come back a lot to get all the information we need,” I said.
A woman working on the computer next to us glanced over and saw what we were doing. “I’m related to that line too,” she said. “I’ve been working here every day to get information about those ancestors.” Within minutes, she copied all of her information onto a disc and handed it to Dad.
As we walked back to the car, I thought hard. “Heavenly Father must really want us to find our ancestors, don’t you think, Dad?”
He smiled. “I think you’re right. If we had found the ancestors we were looking for last week, we may not have met our new friend here today. And had we not met her, we would not have been able to find so many of our ancestors so quickly.”
I knew that Heavenly Father had helped us discover almost 1,000 years’ worth of family history in one morning. He loves our ancestors as much as He loves us. We needed to help them just as He had helped us—by finding their names, learning about their lives, and making sure their temple work was done. Someday I will meet them, and we can be an eternal family.

Many teenagers have trouble getting along with their parents at some stage during their teen years. As a 16-year-old, I started to think that my mom and I would never have a conversation that didn’t end with tears and slammed doors.
During one particular argument, I shouted some angry words, stormed into my bedroom, and slammed the door as hard as I could. I threw myself onto my bed with hot, angry tears streaming down my cheeks. Thoughts ran through my head: “How can I fix this? What can I do to stop this constant arguing?”
Then as clear as if the Mormon Tabernacle Choir were in my room, I heard these words: “He lives to comfort me when faint. He lives to hear my soul’s complaint. … He lives to calm my troubled heart. He lives all blessings to impart” (“I Know That My Redeemer Lives,” Hymns, no. 136). I felt the Holy Ghost’s presence and the love of my Heavenly Father encircling me, and I knew that everything would work out.
That day was a turning point for me. Heavenly Father knew what I needed. Music is a huge part of my life, and I was blessed by listening to and learning the words of the hymns. They gave me comfort and strength when I really needed it, and they can help us through hard times.
Today my mom and I are the best of friends. We are both serving in the Primary in our ward, and I love that we can work together in our callings as well as at home.

A few years ago my brother gave me some of the mission statements that his brothers in the Hanford California Third Branch had written. Here are a few lines from those statements:
I want to lift the hands that hang down and strengthen the feeble knees.
Is anything too hard for the Lord?
I will always say, “Here am I, Lord, send me!”
At first glance, nothing seems unusual about these statements. The men of the Hanford Third Branch, however, are those who hold their services in the California state prison at Avenal. Every week, and sometimes multiple times a week, President Ralph Morrill would faithfully visit the brethren of the Hanford Third Branch. Most of society consider these men to be without hope, but not President Morrill. He inspired these men to write mission statements and to have hope for the future. He visited my brother, David, in what would be his darkest hour—the day David learned that his meek and gentle teenage son had lost his life in a senseless act of violence.
Because of President Morrill’s service, my brother, David, has transformed his life. Since David was released from prison almost three years ago, he has helped bring many of his friends to the gospel of Jesus Christ. He has earned four semesters of 4.0 grades and will graduate from the local community college this spring. I will be there to celebrate his graduation, and so will President Morrill.
President Morrill has invited many men of the Hanford Third Branch to devote their lives to preparing to enter the house of the Lord, where “the power of godliness is manifest.”

How would you like to read a book called The Boy Who Cried Eggplant? Or how about Grandma Whiskers and Lady Chicken Squeezer? Or Tweedledee, Tweedledum, and Tweedledumber?

These are three of the many homemade books written and illustrated by Dexter and Quinlan Mann (10 and 8) of Winnipeg, Manitoba. All the books are funny, wise, and wildly creative—like the boys who wrote them.

Although Dexter and Quinlan share a whimsical sense of humor, they have different personalities. “Dexter jumps into things and is very outspoken,” Dad explains. “Quinlan is very thoughtful and philosophical.”

Dexter likes helping his mom bake—especially cookies. He also collects rocks, runs cross-country, and plays soccer at recess—even when the playground snow is deep. Quinlan, on the other hand, spent many recesses creating a play for his third-grade classmates to perform. Still, the brothers prefer doing things together. One snowy winter they built a huge snow fort in the front yard. It had several rooms and snow benches for resting.

These funny boys are serious about choosing the right and serving others. When their grandpa had cancer, they not only prayed for his recovery but also rolled up their sleeves and took care of his garden. They grew corn, cucumbers, broccoli, chili peppers, onions, peas, tomatoes, beets, some odd-looking carrots, and three pumpkins destined to become jack-o’-lanterns. The eggplants died, but nobody minded much, because Grandpa lived.

He has promised the boys that as each of them receives his mission call, he will buy them a 10-foot submarine sandwich to share. Now they can’t see a pickle or a slice of bologna without thinking of missionary work. They are already earning money for their missions by delivering flyers. By the time Dexter and Quinlan leave, their younger brothers, Heath (1) and Bailey (3 months) will be old enough to take over the flyer deliveries.

Looking ahead, Dexter announced one day that by the time Heath was old enough to be baptized, he, Dexter, would be a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood and could baptize his little brother. At this point, Quinlan jumped in and said, “Wait a minute. That means that when Bailey is eight, I’ll be old enough to baptize him!”

Mom laughs. “So Daddy has been bumped from the baptismal schedule.” But then she adds seriously, “I love the fact that at the ages of ten and eight they are already planning to be worthy priesthood holders.”

Quinlan and Dexter are the only Latter-day Saints in their school, but that doesn’t keep them from making good friends there. “They both know how to be loyal friends,” their mom says. Both boys are enthusiastic Scouts too. Dexter is a six-star Cub, and Quinlan has already earned four of his six stars. They have both earned their Religion in Life badges.

The Manns live disciplined lives. Quinlan and Dexter do most of their playing and book writing on Friday night and Saturday because weekdays are carefully scheduled. Homework starts right after dinner and is followed by chores. These include emptying the garbage, helping to tend Heath and Bailey, helping Mom with the laundry, and cleaning their rooms.

The boys attend a French-immersion school in which 75 percent of their class work is in French. French and English are the official languages of Canada, and speaking both will help them get good jobs someday.

Although the Mann family are serious about education and the gospel, they are not overly solemn. They are a laughing, game-playing, camping-out family. North of Winnipeg there are huge lakes and vast forests where they often set up their tent. They celebrate major holidays and family milestones at big dinners with their extended families and others who have been generously “adopted.” On Canada Day (July 1), the children bash away at a piñata filled with candy.

What are the boys most thankful for? They give the same answer: their family. “I feel 100 percent good about them all,” Dexter says. He stops and reconsiders. “Sometimes 99 percent,” he admits. He is an honest boy.

In Canada people often take off their shoes when they enter a home because there is so much wet weather outside. But it could also be a reminder that the home is a sacred place where love and laughter make a refuge from the world, a place where a child might feel equally comfortable reading scriptures or writing funny stories. The Mann home is that kind of place.

“Callie, wake up!” Mama called.
Callie opened her eyes a little and looked out the window by her bed. She could barely see the outline of the windmill against the morning sky.
A smile lighted Callie’s face. “It’s quilting day!” Callie cried. She hopped out of bed and dressed quickly.
Callie always liked quilting day. Ladies from miles around came to her home. Callie’s friend, Mary Porter, would come with her mother too. Living on the Texas plains prevented Callie from seeing her friends very often after school let out for the summer. And today would be the most special quilting day of all!
Callie rushed to the kitchen. Mama and Papa and her brothers, Joseph and Tom, were already at the table, eating steaming bowls of mush.
“You’re looking mighty cheerful today, Callie,” said Papa.
“It’s quilting day. They’re going to do my quilt today!” exclaimed Callie.
Papa put down his spoon. “I plumb forgot! Was I supposed to put up the quilting frame in the front room, Eliza?” he said to Callie’s mother.
Callie’s heart felt like it skipped a beat. “You didn’t put up the frame?”
Mama smiled. “Now, Henry, don’t tease the child.”
Papa laughed, and so did Joseph and Tom.
“Don’t worry, Callie. The quilting frame is up and ready to go,” said Papa with a big grin.
Callie relaxed. Papa was always teasing.
After breakfast Papa and the boys went to work in the fields, and Callie helped her mother in the kitchen. When she was through, Callie went into the front room. Her Flower Garden quilt was stretched tightly on the frame, waiting to be quilted. Months ago Callie had helped Mama pick the many colored pieces from her scrap bag to go onto the pale yellow background. Mama had brought her scrap bag all the way from Missouri before Callie was born.
Callie ran her hands lightly over the beautiful flowers Mama had carefully pieced together. The Texas plains were too drab. Except for the blue sky, all Callie could see outside were continuous tans and browns. A colorful quilt would brighten the days.
Soon the ladies began arriving in their horse-drawn wagons. Mrs. Porter and Mary were the last to arrive. At first Callie felt shy. It had been so long since she had seen Mary that it was almost like meeting a stranger. Then Mary smiled, and it was as though they had seen each other only yesterday.
Mary had brought her beautiful china doll, Josephine, and a little basket full of doll clothes. “Mama made new clothes for Josephine,” she said.
The girls went outside and sat in the shade of the house. Callie marveled at the array of Josephine’s beautiful clothes. Callie brought out her own doll, love-worn old Sally, and the girls played dolls all morning. By afternoon it was warm even in the shade.
“Let’s go into the dugout,” said Callie. “It’s cool there.”
“Ugh! I hate dugouts. You’ve never had to live in one.”
“Yes, I have,” Callie told her. “In fact, I was born in this one.” She raised the wooden door to the underground room.
“We lived here until our house was built.”
“We lived in one, too,” said Mary. “And I remember how dull and dreary it was.”
“My mama felt that way, too,” Callie said. “But the most important thing at that time was to get the well dug and the windmill built. Everyone around here had to live in dugouts for a while.”
“Well, I’d rather stay up here and be hot than go down there and be cool,” said Mary.
Callie smiled. “OK. Let’s go inside. I want to see my quilt.”
In the front room the ladies were laughing and talking as their nimble fingers stitched the quilt layers together.
Callie and Mary went back outside and played until the ladies began to leave. Mrs. Porter and Mary climbed into their wagon. “You come and see us real soon!” called Mrs. Porter.
Callie and her mother went back inside. Mama laid the finished quilt in Callie’s arms.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!” Callie cried, hugging the quilt close to her. She raced to her room and spread the Flower Garden quilt on her bed. The plain room instantly became bright and cheery. That night Callie slept soundly under the new quilt.
The next day things were back to normal around the ranch. That afternoon while Mama and Callie were working in the garden, they heard hooves. Callie stood up and shaded her eyes against the sun. “It’s Mr. Walker.”
Mr. Walker rode up to them. He tipped his hat. “Afternoon, Mrs. Logan. I’m riding around to tell everyone that the Porters’ house caught on fire last night. The family got out all right, but the house burned to the ground. They lost everything. We’ll be taking up a collection at the schoolhouse.”
“Mercy!” cried Mama. “I’ll gather up some things for them. You’re sure everyone is all right?”
“Yes, ma’am. But they’ll be back in their dugout for a while until they can raise another house.”
After Mr. Walker left, Mama gathered things to send to the Porters. “Your papa can take these to the schoolhouse tomorrow,” she said.
All Callie could think of was Mary and Josephine and Josephine’s new clothes. Oh, Mary had been so proud of those clothes, and she’d loved Josephine so much!
Callie had a hard time eating dinner that night. When she went to bed, she lay under her quilt and looked out the window at the stars and the windmill. The sound of the windmill usually soothed her to sleep, but it didn’t tonight. She thought about Mary living in the hated dugout where there were no stars and no windmills to see.
The next morning Callie woke up very early. She got out of bed, folded the precious flowered quilt, and took it into the kitchen. Papa was carrying things out to the wagon. Callie handed him the quilt. “This is for Mary.”
Papa put his big hand on her shoulder. “I’ll tell her,” he said softly.
Callie stood in the doorway and watched him drive away. Her stomach felt funny, and she had a lump in her throat. But she felt good too.
Mama put her arms around Callie’s shoulders. “Callie, I have a new quilt pattern called Texas Windmill. It’s the prettiest, swirliest, most colorful quilt I ever saw. How would you like to help me pick out the colors, and I’ll get started on it right away. I think it would look real pretty on your bed.”
Callie smiled. “I’d like that.”