Gospel Story Finder

I once asked a man in a fireside group what he would like to do more than anything else if he could just do whatever he wanted. His face lit up, he sat on the edge of his chair, his hands came to life, and he told me that he’d just love to have a whole room full of power tools and bring all the kids in the neighborhood in to help them build birdhouses, playhouses, chicken coops, or anything in the whole world they wanted to build. He loved kids; he loved tools; he loved building things; his whole face was aglow with it. I asked him what he was studying at school; the light went out, and he told me he was studying to be a civil engineer. Why? Because his father was one, it paid good money, and so on. I knew he had the capability of being a good civil engineer, but I asked him, “Have you ever thought about teaching shop instead and spending all day working with power tools and teaching kids how to build things?” He just about fell off his chair. His mouth hung open. His eyes lit up again. It had simply never occurred to him to take stock of what he really liked to do, of what really mattered to him in choosing a career. He had never stopped to think that his wonderful love for young people might be there for that kind of a purpose. He had decided the biggest part of the rest of his life with his eyes closed.

A heartfelt delivery took place in December as Erina Osborne and Chris Forbes, along with a dedicated team of volunteers from local congregations of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, made their way to Waikato Hospital with 138 beautifully crafted quilts and “angel blankets” for various hospital units.
An angel blanket is an infant-sized blanket provided to mothers of newborn children with life threatening conditions.
The quilts provided comfort and warmth to families and children facing difficult circumstances during the holiday season.
The quilts were distributed across several hospital wards:
Neonatal Ward: 48 quilts
Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU): 76 quilts
Waikids Cancer Ward: 14 quilts
Since 2021, Erina and Chris, along with a network of volunteers, have donated over 750 quilts and angel blankets to various organizations.
Erina and Chris took the opportunity to visit with nurses and doctors, thanking them for their unwavering dedication to the children and families in their care. Many of the healthcare workers were visibly moved by the thoughtful gesture.
Several young women volunteers, many of whom were learning to sew for the first time, bravely took part in creating the quilts for babies while overcoming their own personal challenges to bless the lives of newborn babies.
The quilts were delivered just in time for Christmas, offering families and healthcare professionals a tangible reminder of hope and warmth during a season often marked by hardship and loss.
The quilting project was promoted on the JustServe.org website so volunteers could join in.

I have related before my experience with a friend who took me to his ranch. He unlocked the door of a large new automobile, slid behind the wheel, and said proudly, “How do you like my new car?” We rode in luxurious comfort into the rural areas to a beautiful new landscaped home, and he said with no little pride, “This is my home.”

He drove to a grassy hill. The sun was setting behind the distant hills. He surveyed his vast domain. Pointing to the north, he asked, “Do you see that clump of trees over there?” I could plainly discern them in the fading day.

He pointed to the east. “Do you see the lake shimmering in the sunset?” It too was visible.

“Now, the bluff that’s on the south.” We turned about to scan the distance. He identified barns, silos, the ranch house to the west. With a wide sweeping gesture, he boasted, “From the clump of trees, to the lake, to the bluff, and to the ranch buildings and all between—all this is mine. And the dark specks in the meadow—those cattle also are mine.”

And then I asked from whom he obtained it. The chain of ownership of his property went back to land given by governments. His attorney had assured him he had an unencumbered title.

“From whom did the government get it?” I asked. “What was paid for it?” There came into my mind the declaration of the Psalmist, boldly restated by Paul: “The earth is the Lord’s and the fulness thereof” (1 Cor. 10:26).

And then I asked, “Did ownership come from God, Creator of the earth and the owner thereof? Did he get paid? Was it sold or leased or given to you? If a gift, from whom? If a sale, with what exchange or currency? If a lease, do you make proper accounting?”

And then I asked, “What was the price? With what treasures did you buy this farm?”

“Money!”

Where did you get the money?”

“From my toil, my sweat, my labor, and my strength.”

And then I asked, “Where did you get your strength to toil, your power to labor, your glands to sweat?”

He spoke of food.

“Where did the food originate?”

“From sun and atmosphere and soil and water.”

“And who brought those elements here?”

I quoted the Psalmist:

“Thou, O God, didst send a plentiful rain, whereby thou didst confirm thine inheritance, when it was weary” (Ps. 68:9).

“If the land is not yours, then what accounting do you make to your landlord for his bounties? The scripture says: ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and to God that which is God’s’ (see Matt. 22:21). What percentage of your increase do you pay Caesar? And what percent to God?

“Do you believe the Bible? Do you accept the command of the Lord through the prophet Malachi? Do you believe Moses’ words to Pharaoh that the earth is the Lord’s?” (Ex. 9:29).

I said again: “I seem to find no place in holy writ where God has said, ‘I give you ownership of this land unconditionally.’

“I cannot find such scripture, but I do find this from Psalms:

‘Those that wait upon the Lord, … shall inherit the earth’ (Ps. 37:9).

“And I remember that our Creator covenanted in the council in heaven with us all: ‘[And] we will go down, for there is space there, and we will take of these materials, and we will make an earth whereon these may dwell’ (Abr. 3:24).

“It seems more like a lease on which a rental is exacted than like a simple ownership.

“This does not seem to convey the earth but only the use and contents which are given to men on condition that they live all of the commandments of God.”

But my friend continued to mumble, “Mine—mine,” as if to convince himself against the surer knowledge that he was at best a recreant renter.

That was long years ago. I later saw him lying in his death among luxurious furnishings in a palatial home. His had been a vast estate. And I closed his eyes. I spoke at his funeral, and I followed the cortege from the good piece of earth he had claimed to his grave, a tiny, oblong area the length of a tall man, the width of a heavy one.

Later I saw that same estate, yellow in grain, green in lucerne, white in cotton, seemingly unmindful of him who had claimed it.

The last category are those who turned their heel against the Prophet Joseph Smith. Almon Whiting Babbitt, an attorney-at-law and a graduate from the State University at Cincinnati who obtained licenses to practice law in six states, is our last example. On 19 January 1841, the Lord revealed to the Prophet that “there are many things with which I am not pleased,” in speaking of Babbitt. “Behold, he aspireth to establish his counsel instead of the counsel which I have ordained, even that of the Presidency of my Church; and he setteth up a golden calf for the worship of my people.”[17] Nowhere is the concept of a “golden calf” better seen in his life than in June 1844. The day before the martyrdom, Uncle John Smith visited the Prophet in Carthage Jail and received instructions to “. . . tell Almon W. Babbitt I want him to come and assist me as an attorney at my expected trial.”[18] Patriarch Smith met with him three hours later in Macedonia, Illinois, and delivered the message. Almon replied, “You are too late, I am already engaged on the other side.”[19]

Two and a half years ago, my husband, Mark, and I were invited to join a Zoom call with four BYU–Pathway students. They were from Papua New Guinea, South Africa, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Zimbabwe. For more than an hour, we listened as they told their stories about how BYU–Pathway had transformed their lives. We were overwhelmed by their intelligence, determination, resilience, and faith. We were also humbled by the sacrifices they were making to get an education—sacrifices most of us could never fully comprehend.
It was on that call that I understood for the first time, in a very profound way, a phrase that I had heard before and that I hope you will remember: Talent is equally distributed, but opportunity is not.

Like so many young people do, when I was young I occasionally dreamed of being rich and famous. I am now grateful that that dream was not realized. My understanding of what success really is has changed over the years of my life. It began to change on my first mission to Brazil over 45 years ago.
One day, my companion and I went out to visit a poor sister who was widowed. In those days there were no stakes or wards in Brazil, only mission districts and branches. Sometimes missionaries looked after the members.
Finally, we arrived at a humble home in a very isolated area. This home had a dirt floor and open windows without any glass. The wind and the flies could come right through. Never before in my life had I been in a home where people live with open windows and a dirt floor. Despite this, the house was clean and neat, curtains were hung, and the boards on the inside of the house were whitewashed. Despite being primitive, the home had a cozy feeling about it. We asked after this poor widow’s health and well-being. She seemed quite happy and contented. We then began to have something of a gospel lesson. She participated freely. We thought that we were the teachers, but it soon became apparent that she knew more than we did. Her faith was deep, and her knowledge of the great eternal truths of where we came from, who we are, and where we are going was very profound.
I had my eyes opened. It was astonishing to hear this sister in these humble circumstances explain the great purposes of God in the grand scheme of the earth and its creation. I was reminded about what James said in his great epistle: “Hath not God chosen the poor of this world rich in faith, and heirs of the kingdom which he hath promised to them that love him?” (James 2:5).
In contrast to this experience, I have seen many who were wealthy who have wasted their talents and energy to a point where their spiritual understanding was dulled. Some were so preoccupied with money and things that they missed the grand purpose of life. I am sure that while poor people did not choose to be poor, often it is within their grasp to know, understand, and enjoy the really important things. So if one does not have all the things of this world one would wish, one can still have and enjoy the rich, satisfying gifts of life and the blessings of God, such as faith, family, and friends.
This poor widow on the outskirts of São Paulo made the most of her straitened circumstances—circumstances that could not easily be changed. She realized that she should not make her life miserable by wishing it were otherwise. We ought always to try to improve on the things that can be improved, but there are some circumstances that cannot be changed. This impoverished woman enjoyed her independence, and she owed no one any money. She was industrious and thrifty. She crocheted beautiful cloths which were sold in the city to satisfy her simple wants, but she was not poor in spirit. She was rich in the things that really matter.
From that experience many years ago, I learned much. I am persuaded that this humble widow who lived in a house with a dirt floor and no panes in the window is an heir to the exaltation of God.

One of Sister Redd’s “jewel” times was at the birth of her first child, a son. But within three months the trials and tests of this life soon closed in. Both mother and child were afflicted with polio. Anxieties were high and prayers were intense. Brother Philip Redd, her husband and now area director of seminaries and institutes in Southeast Asia, was preparing within the month to begin his career as a full-time seminary teacher. “We felt we had really tried to do what was right and that we were doing what the Lord wanted us to be doing. We had faith that the Lord would bless us even in our afflictions.”
Our Father in Heaven has told us that his people must be tried and tested, even as Abraham who was commanded to offer up his only son (see Gen. 22:1–4; D&C 101:4). And so it was that this faithful couple was tested. Their prayers were answered, but only partially. Sister Redd was healed and left without any ill effects from the dread disease, but her precious child, her only son, was stricken with crippling paralysis in his leg, his arms, and his back. The brightness of a happy time had quickly faded. The scratches and bites of life became a painful reality. Brother and Sister Redd were forced to give up their child to the professional care of the children’s hospital over a 160 kilometers away where he could receive special attention. Even after a year he was still very weak and progress remained slow.
Three long anxious years, and the concern for her child only increased. The divine nature of a true and righteous mother, with all of the pure emotions inherent in the sacred role of motherhood, swelled within her aching heart. “I just wanted so desperately for him to be well,” she whispered. “It was so hard not to be able to tuck my little boy in at night. His life was vital to us.”
One night at the very peak of her anxiety, this young mother rose from her bed, went into the other room, and talked to her Father in Heaven. She had remembered an incident in her own childhood. A great and noble woman had prayed in behalf of her afflicted husband and requested that, if the Lord were willing, she be allowed to carry her husband’s infirmities so that his service to the Lord would not be restricted. This sister, almost immediately, became stone deaf and remained so throughout her life, while her husband, miraculously healed, became a spiritual giant, a man of God, and a powerful leader in building the kingdom of God in that area. With the memory of this incident in her heart, this faithful mother supplicated the Father in her son’s behalf, asking if she might take her son’s infirmities upon herself. Of this incident she concluded, “I returned to my bed and went to sleep.”
Even though her baby remained in the hospital, there were still some happy, “jewel” times. Another little boy was born and then a little girl. In time the afflicted child became stronger and stronger, and he learned to walk with braces. Eventually he was able to leave the hospital for a time, allowing this little family to be together at home for Christmas.
While there were ample reasons for quiet rejoicing, the scratching, biting times were painfully evident. Gradually over the following months Sister Redd became anxiously aware that she was losing the feeling in her hands and her feet. While diapering her baby, she would often stick the safety pin into her thumb unknowingly. When she noticed the blood, her growing concern increased. She sensed a frightening paralysis creeping over her entire body. It was very difficult for her to handle her little new baby and the responsibilities of her young family. As the months and years continued, there were both struggles and blessings along the way. Braces were laid aside and her little son managed to make his way to school. These blessings were acknowledged with humble gratitude, deeply expressed. But suffering severe headaches and with no feeling in her hands or feet, the young mother of three cried out for help. The support of family and friends seemed not enough. “People were good, so very, very good,” she gratefully recalled. “But being restricted physically, not being able to take care of those you love, is so very difficult.”
At this time a team of specialists determined that it was probably multiple sclerosis that had afflicted her body, leaving her so painfully handicapped. The thoughts of her future gave cause for great anxiety. “That was years ago,” she said. Sister Redd, now a beautiful, healthy, and active woman, vibrant in countenance and testimony, radiates a spirit that has been purified through struggle.
She spoke of the day she and her devoted husband, seeking first the will of the Lord in all things, sought counsel from a friend who had been the supervisor of seminaries and was now a General Authority. “He told us that he didn’t think the Lord meant for me to give my life. He gave me a blessing, explaining that the Lord had accepted my offering in behalf of my child. He promised me that I would live. But it is not we who regulate the magnitude of our tests or determine the time of relief,” she explained. “We do not receive a witness until after the trial of our faith (see Ether 12:6), and our Father in Heaven will make that determination.”
The very hour one might expect relief may be the moment in which the Lord will take count of our endurance and our faithfulness. Following the blessing, Sister Redd’s condition worsened, and on the 25th of October she was confined to bed. She had to be fed, and “I couldn’t even brush my teeth,” she explained. “My good husband and I talked about the purpose of life and death, and we prayed that we could accept whatever the Lord had for us. At that time we felt that everything would be all right.” Drawing strength from each other, these young parents were tested and were found “willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon [them], even as a child doth submit to his father.” (Mosiah 3:19).
On the 20th of December Nedra Redd was flown to the hospital in Edmonton, Alberta. There she received further tests. After two long, anxious days, the doctors confirmed the probability that it was not multiple sclerosis that had afflicted her entire body, but rather a very deep and serious brain tumor at the base of her skull. It appeared to be inoperable. In her weakened condition, the possibility of surgery was considered a high and frightening risk. But the doctors explained that she would have only two weeks to live if they didn’t remove the growth. It was seriously impairing her breathing and would soon cut off her rapidly diminishing flow of air. The situation seemed desperate. One doctor offered counsel, suggesting that if they wanted to risk surgery, they would surely want to wait until after Christmas. But Sister Redd reached into her reservoir of strength, filled in large measure by the blessing she had received from their friend the General Authority. Courageously this young couple made their decision. “Surgery was scheduled for Christmas Eve,” she said. “We felt our Father in Heaven was beginning to answer our prayers,” she whispered. “On Sunday night my cousin, who was the stake president, came to give me a blessing. He told me later that when he gave me that blessing, he literally felt the strength flow from him.” The power of the priesthood was again activated in her behalf.
Anxious family and friends waited through the nightlong vigil following the surgery. Dawn broke forth; it was Christmas morning. The tumor had been removed. All was quiet as the moments ticked on in that hospital room. Her future hung in the balance. “I had a very special thinking time as I regained consciousness,” Sister Redd explained. It was in the twilight time between life and death that the gifts of life came back to this faithful woman on that Christmas morning. They returned one by one with enough space between each to allow time for cherishing and savoring. Such gifts, such jewels, such priceless jewels!
“I’m all right! I didn’t die in surgery! I’m alive!” was her first realization. “But everything was black, and I couldn’t hear anything. I tried to speak, and I couldn’t speak. I thought, ‘I’m blind. I can’t hear. I can’t speak. But I am alive.’ I can remember such a surge of gratitude that I was alive, and then I sank into unconsciousness again. When I realized later that I was conscious again and that there was a sort of grayness around me, I thought, ‘I am not totally blind. I can see some light.’ I can remember praying and telling my Father, ‘Thank you. I’m alive and I’m not totally blind.’ I couldn’t have lived in darkness. So I gave thanks again. Then I realized I could see Phil’s face. My husband was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear him. But,” she said with intensity, “I could see him. I was grateful that I could see his face.
“Soon I realized I could hear him speaking to me, so I prayed again and gave thanks that I could see and hear. I thought, ‘I can’t speak, but it’s enough. I can see and I can hear.’”
Sister Redd, reflecting on her deep gratitude for those precious gifts on that Christmas morning, shared the ecstasy of her final treasure. “The doctor was there. I had been trying to speak. I heard him ask my husband, ‘Can she speak?’ He shook his head just slightly. ‘I was afraid of that,’ the doctor said. ‘We had to destroy quite a bit of her vocal chords to get the tumor. I was afraid she would not be able to speak.’”
With a happy tone in her clear, full voice, Sister Redd recalled her thoughts at that moment: “‘Oh, so that’s it.’ I thought. ‘I can’t talk. But I can hear and I can see.’ I had such a deep feeling of joy and gratitude. Then the doctor put his finger on the hole in my throat where the tracheotomy was and said, ‘Now try.’ I could make sounds! I knew I was not mute. It was such a good feeling. We knew the Lord had blessed us.
“It was Christmas morning. Phil had spent the night with me when I needed him so much. With my whole soul filled with gratitude and thanksgiving, I asked him to go home and be with the children. It was a wonderful Christmas.”
From the deep reservoir of faith and courage, carved out by times of trial and suffering, Brother and Sister Redd rejoice. “It is such a comforting feeling to know that there is nothing the Lord can’t do or won’t do for you if it is for your good.” They have made this discovery: “The Lord is in the everyday things, not just the eternal, glorious things. It’s like the comparison between the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ and quiet background music. He is in both, and knowing that provides a continuous awareness of happily-ever-after times in all of life.”

Charles Westover was born in Ohio during the fall of 1827. His father died in Ohio during the spring of 1834, but shortly before his death he described a dream in which he saw people being baptized by immersion in something that resembled a “tan vat.” This dream would later have dearer meaning for Charles. After the death of his father, young Charles lived with many different families. At times he was ill-treated, and he never seemed to really fit in.

Charles heard about the events that surrounded the rise of the LDS Church in Ohio and became prejudiced against it, even though his aunt and cousin had been baptized. Finally, two elders (Goodale and Howe) arrived and left the message of the restored gospel. Although Charles’ prejudices vanished at that time, he did not commit to baptism. He recorded:

The house was jammed full. Such a sermon as we heard that night I never heard before. That night with all my prejudices, I was converted to the truth of Mormonism. I tell you all who read this sketch that Elder [Goodale] was most powerful and that he was filled of the Holy Spirit. His words pierced you through and through. [Charles Westover, Pinto Ward Membership Records]

Charles was intrigued by what he had heard. The occasion arose for Charles to attend a conference of the Saints only 15 miles north. Again he wrote about the special feeling that attended that conference. A few months later young Charles accompanied his mother and his brother’s family to Council Bluffs on the Missouri River. From there he ferried across the river to Winter Quarters. He tried without success to find Elder Goodale. Discouraged, without money, and 1,000 miles from home, he wandered out to the graveyard, where there were buried more than 600 people from the areas where the Saints camped.

Then, though Charles had still not been baptized, Brother Erastus Snow engaged him to drive one of his wagons across the plains. This must have been an exciting moment for a rough young man whose independence had caused him so much trouble in the past. He noted, “It was a beautiful team to drive—a yoke of large stags on the tongue, a yoke of cows and a yoke of yearling heifers on the lead” (Charles Westover, “A Short History of My Life,” family archives).

Although the family journals do not record much of the final exodus of the Saints to the Salt Lake Valley, it was begun in the spring with the goal to reach their destination before the winter months set in. Charles was assigned guard duty once every six or seven days. They observed hundreds of buffalo on the slope of the river going to drink. They had dancing and music, for the Nauvoo brass band was in the company. We read from the previous journey that the travel across Iowa was slowed by the heavy spring rains that made the trail a path of mud. Brigham noted that one day they only had one mud hole to contend with, but it was six miles long. It must have been similar on this trek. Charles was baptized on May 17, 1848.

It wasn’t so much that I doubted. It was just that I didn’t know.
There I was, seventeen years old and an “active” member of the Church all my life. Baptized at eight. Ordained a deacon at twelve. Now in my fourth year of seminary. And I still couldn’t say “I know.”
For my good buddy Gary, it seemed so easy. We often sat side by side at the sacrament table. Almost every fast Sunday I would sense him squirming beside me. And almost without fail he would rise to his feet before fast and testimony meeting ended to bear his testimony. His voice quavered, and his eyes would fill with tears as he told how wonderful it was to feel the Holy Ghost.
I envied Gary, but at the same time I felt uncomfortable. His tears made me feel a little embarrassed for him. Still, I wished that I had the kind of testimony he had. I guess I just didn’t want it badly enough then. So I continued to drift comfortably.
Then came that final year of seminary. Subject: The Book of Mormon. Focus: Moroni, chapter 10, verses 4 and 5 [Moro. 10:4–5]. Our challenge was to read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover and to pray for a witness that it is true—in other words, to apply Moroni’s promise.
At first I didn’t make much of an effort. But as the school year wore on, I began to read the Book of Mormon every night, the last thing before I went to bed. And after reading, I would kneel beside my bed and ask for a witness that the book—and the Church—are true.
And still nothing happened.
Constantly in the back of my mind was Gary’s fervent testimony. Also, there was the scripture in Doctrine and Covenants 9:8 [D&C 9:8], where the Lord told Oliver Cowdery, “I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you.”
So night after night I knelt on the small braided rug beside my bed, said a pleading prayer, and climbed into bed to wait for that burning witness. Then, one night, I stopped in the middle of my prayer and asked myself, “Do I know if it’s true yet?”
And then it happened. There was no pillar of light. No voice. Not even the burning sensation that I had been looking for. Instead, a simple realization came into my mind.
Suddenly, I knew that I knew. And that was it. Calm and peaceful and seemingly unspectacular, it was all I needed at the time. I knew that I knew.
Since that time, I have become more aware of the Lord’s words to Oliver Cowdery in the sixth section of the Doctrine and Covenants: “If you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things.
“Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?” (D&C 6:22–23, italics added).
Many times would follow when I would feel that burning in my bosom. Many times I would feel the joyful swelling in my heart that Alma describes. (See Alma 32:28.) But for the time being, that quiet realization was all I needed, all I had to remember. The Lord had spoken peace to my mind.

George Albert and Lucy Smith had been married for about 40 years when Lucy began a prolonged struggle with frail health. Though he worried about her and tried to comfort her as much as he could, President Smith’s duties as a General Authority often required him to be away from home. One day after President Smith gave a talk at a funeral, someone handed him a note telling him to return home immediately. He later wrote in his journal:
“I left the chapel at once but my Darling wife had breathed her last before I arrived at home. She was passing while I was talking at the funeral. I am of course bereft of a devoted helpmeet and will be lonely without her.”
“While my family are greatly distressed,” he continued, “we are comforted by the assurance of a reunion with [her] if we remain faithful. … The Lord is most kind and has taken away every feeling of death, for which I am exceedingly grateful.”16

At one point, Graydon and Donna, who had been bringing up the rear with their father, stepped into some quicksand—more accurately, water-saturated sand. Graydon quickly leaped free, but Donna struggled too hard and was soon in the bog up to her waist. Graydon and his father couldn’t pull her out, and the others were too far ahead. But Chris Jones, who had arrived later in the day and started the hike with a friend, caught up to them from behind like the Cavalry. Between the four men, a branch, and stepping stones that kept sinking in the mud, she was extricated, a little shaken after the half-hour ordeal. “Guess I don’t have to find those scissors to cut your legs off,” Chris laughed, trying to cheer her up.

“You have flour on your nose, Jeffrey,” Mother teased.
Jeffrey looked down to see the white flour powdering his nose. They both began to laugh.
“I think I have flour on more than just my nose,” said Jeffrey as his eyes traveled farther down to his shirt and trousers. He dumped another cup of flour into the big batch of bread dough and mixed it thoroughly. His sister Barbara began wiping off the kitchen table so the dough could be kneaded and divided into loaves.
“You’re both doing such a good job helping to make the bread that there’s nothing left for me to do!” exclaimed Mother.
Jeffrey and Barbara beamed at each other, and Barbara said, “Look. Even Jason wants to help.”
Three-year-old Jason was sitting on the kitchen floor struggling to pull bread pans out of the cupboard.
“Welcoming our new neighbors across the street has really become a family affair,” Mother said. “Your dad’s out in the garden right now,” she added, “picking tomatoes and zucchini to take over to them.”
“Where’s Jenny?” asked Barbara.
Just then Jenny came bursting into the kitchen.
“Mother!” she wailed. “You simply have to help me decide what I’m going to do for the school variety show. I’m supposed to tell my teacher this week.”
“Maybe you could play that new piece you’ve been learning on the piano,” Mother calmly suggested.
“Oh, Mother!” Jenny replied impatiently. “I played the piano last year. I want to do something new and different.”
“Mmm,” said Mother, “I’ll have to think about it. Why don’t you help us finish making this bread for our new neighbors, and we’ll talk about what you might do.”
Jenny glanced scornfully at the powdery white trail across the kitchen floor and at the gooey globs of dough on Jeffrey’s hands. She retreated to her bedroom, mumbling something about having more important things to do than make bread.
“Jenny certainly isn’t much help today,” Barbara declared.
“She just doesn’t realize how much fun she’s missing,” Mother said, sighing with disappointment.
That afternoon, when the Anderson family was ready to take their gifts to welcome the new neighbors, Dad found Jenny watching television.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Dad. “We’re all anxious to meet the new people across the street.”
“Doesn’t sound like much fun to me,” replied Jenny, not taking her eyes off the show she was watching.
“Jenny,” said Dad firmly, “we really feel that the whole family should go over to welcome our new neighbors. Please come with us.”
“Oh, all right,” said Jenny, “but I’d much rather stay here and watch television.”
Dad rang their new neighbor’s doorbell, and a man with black hair and dark eyes opened the door and looked curiously at the family. Dad introduced himself and the rest of the family and explained that they were a welcoming committee. The man’s face broke into a big grin. Calling his wife and two daughters, he enthusiastically invited Dad, Mother, Jeffrey, Jenny, Barbara, and Jason into his home.
When Dad presented them with warm bread and freshly-picked vegetables, the new family exclaimed in unison, “Mahalo! Mahalo!”
The Andersons soon learned that Mr. and Mrs. Kanahele and their daughters, Leimomi and Lani, had moved to California from a small town in Hawaii and that mahalo means thanks in Hawaiian.
Looking around at the stacks of boxes, the Anderson family offered to help the Kanaheles unpack. Soon everyone was talking and laughing.
Leimomi was delighted to find that she would be in Jenny’s class at school. Lani was Barbara’s age.
As the four girls chattered away, Mother smiled because Jenny seemed to be enjoying herself most of all. She and Leimomi were busily rummaging through a box of Leimomi’s Hawaiian treasures, and Jenny was telling Leimomi that she would be glad to show her around school.
Jenny and Leimomi were gaily dancing around with the grass skirt Leimomi had dug out of the box when they heard Mrs. Kanahele exclaim to Lani, “Now you will be able to have a hauoli la hanau!”
“Hauoli la hanau means happy birthday in Hawaiian,” Lani explained to the Andersons. “My birthday is next week, and I was afraid I wouldn’t have any friends to invite to the party, but now Barbara and Jenny are here. Will you come?”
“That would be a lot of fun!” exclaimed Barbara. “I’ve never been to a Hawaiian birthday party.”
When the Andersons went home, Dad’s arms were loaded with pineapples, Jeffrey was lugging two coconuts, and Mother was wearing a lei. Jason toted two big bananas that had been grown in the Kanahele’s backyard in Hawaii.
“You know,” Mother said, smiling thoughtfully, “I think we’re taking more home with us than we took over to them.”
“Yes,” Dad said, “and we all seemed to enjoy our visit.”
Jenny tugged at Dad’s sleeve. “It certainly was more fun than watching television. And, Mom, now I know what I’m going to do for the variety show. Leimomi is going to teach me some hula steps and let me wear her grass skirt. Best of all, she’s my aikane (friend).”

You’re going to say I should have arranged housing in advance. But if I had, where would I be now?
After filling out a mountain of forms at registration, I drove around Provo looking for a place to stay. Finally I picked out one of the new apartment units near the campus. The office girl told me they had a vacancy in number 33.
The apartment complex is in the shape of a big C, with a swimming pool and frisby field in the middle. I walked across the lawn to number 33 and knocked on the screen door. Nobody came, although I could hear voices inside. I knocked again.
...
We finished the dishes and sat down around the kitchen table. I took out a sheet of notebook paper and wrote at the top "Operation Engagement."
"We’ll make a list of the things a fellow looks for in an LDS girl. First: testimony. Second: a nice face, a good figure. Third: common interests. Fourth: sense of humor. Fifth: a supporting attitude."
"Let’s go down the list," Cher said. "Testimony. I’ve got one, Tony. I really do."
"Okay," I said. putting down a check on the paper.
"Face." She held out her hand, rotating it to the right and then to the left in a gesture familiar to Easterners. "I don’t know. What do you think?"
"It’s very good. Like a Greek goddess. Do you have many cavities?"
"Our water had fluoride—53% fewer cavities."
I put a check beside "Face."
"Wait," she said, "except for the glasses."
"You have to see."
"I’ll get contact lenses."
"I like you the way you are."
"It’s not you we’re trying to impress," she said coolly. Then, quickly, "I’m sorry, that wasn’t kind."
"No problem."
"Figure?"
I cleared my throat. "Fine."
"You don’t think I’m too skinny?"
"No, ma’am."
"Aren’t you going to say anything more about the figure?"
"No, ma’am."
"Do I dress modestly enough?"
"You dress like a lady."
"Maybe I should dress less modestly to get B.J.’s attention."
"If he noticed you that way, I’d punch him out."
"Okay. Common interests." she said.
"I think B.J.’s biggest interest is himself. So you have a common interest."
"You don’t know him very well. Be constructive."
"Okay," I replied. "Boys from the West are crazy about deer hunting. Do you know anything about deer hunting?"
"What’s there to know?" she asked.
"Do you know how to clean a deer?"
"Do they get dirty?"
"I will ignore that. Probably your biggest common interest is the Church. Maybe that’s enough. Let’s see, sense of humor."
"I don’t think B. J. has a sense of humor."
"If you marry him, you’re going to need one. A supporting attitude. That means you help him on his campaigns. Or you try to do nice things for him, like cooking his favorite food to show him that he’s special to you. You’re doing fine, Cher."
"Tony, there’s one other thing. I have some of that Eastern cynicism. I’m not like your average coed. Maybe I seem too cynical. I need to be more sincere." She wrote down another word at the bottom of the list, sincerity.
The next afternoon when I came in after my lab, she was already working on supper.
"Tony, look what I picked up in the bookstore today. You’re not going to believe this. It’s perfume in a time-release capsule. You just open this little pill and scatter the tiny beads on your hair with this little can. The beads are programmed. The aroma starts out kind of mild, but in about three hours it’s really something. I’m going to put some on."
She applied the contents of one of the small capsules.
"Do you want to smell?"
"In the interests of science," I said.
"Let’s see. It’s 4:30 now. We’ll eat at 6:00. So if I can get around B. J. by 7:00, I’ll give him the full dose."
She started peeling potatoes. I sat at the table and thumbed through a book I was supposed to be reading. The perfume did change aroma as time went on.
"I pick up my contact lenses on Monday, Tony. And I’ve really worked at being sincere. Look at me."
She was standing with her head up, looking at the ceiling.
"What are you looking at the ceiling for?"
"I’m looking at the clouds as the sun breaks through."
"We’re in a room. There are no clouds," I said.
"I know. But you’ve seen those movies where they close with someone looking at the clouds. Now that’s a sincere look, right? Well, I’ve got it, right?"
I stood up, grabbed a dish towel, and draped it over her sincere face.
...
"That’s really great, B.J.," Cher said as she leaned down by him, ostensibly to look at his appointment book but really to allow him a whiff of "T + Three Hours and Counting" perfume.
It was at that moment I realized I loved Cher and didn’t want her to be around B.J.
Monday when I came in, Cher had her contact lenses.
"So how do you like me now?"
"You can really see me?"
"Sure."
"But why are you crying?" I asked.
"My eyes are just watering a little. It’ll clear up once I get used to the lenses."
"I can’t even see them on you. Let me get a little closer." I moved very close to her and looked into her eyes.
"How’s that?" she asked.
"Fine."
"I mean, can you see them now?"
"I’ll have to get closer."
"That’s close enough," she said, moving away.
"Are they hard to take out?"
"Not at all. You just put your finger here on the corner of your eye and blink." She put her other hand below her eye, but the lens missed her hand and fell to the floor.
"Just stay there, Cher. I’ll look for it." I got down on my hands and knees and started looking for it. I soon found the small, green, plastic lens. "Cher, can you see anything?"
"No. Why?"
"Nothing." I put the lens in my shirt pocket.
"Cher, maybe if you get down and help look for it."
She got down on her hands and knees also. "I think we should both concentrate our efforts over here where you were when you dropped it." I moved over by her.
We looked and looked. Finally we decided to take it one tile at a time.
"Tony? You have your hand on top of my hand," she said, looking down at our hands.
"Oh, I do. Do you want me to move it, Cher?"
"I don’t know. I can’t decide."
"Cher, you are really good looking."
"With contacts, I’ll look better. Maybe that’s been my trouble all along."
"No, I mean with glasses, and without the time-release perfume, and without the forced sincere look. You are beautiful. You don’t need any improvement."
"No, I’m not beautiful."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I’m not," she insisted.
"Yes, you are."
"No, I’m not."
"Well, maybe not beautiful. But definitely pretty."
"So you don’t think I’m beautiful!"
"Yes, I do. But you wouldn’t accept it, so I figured I’d compromise. And Cher, you are sincere. In fact, you are just about the most sincere person I’ve ever met. Truly."
"Thank you. I try to be sincere. And Tony, you’re the only person I’ve ever been able to talk to without wondering what I’m supposed to say. With you I’m just myself."
"Cher, you have a nice hand."
"We shouldn’t be here alone like this."
"We’re not alone, Cher. Boris is on the couch, and Enrico is looking at the chalkboard."
"I know," she whispered, "but it’s like being alone."
"Cher, you are very special to me."
"I don’t want to hurt you, Tony."
"Who’s hurting? My knees are a little sore, that’s all."
"That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to fall in love with me."
"It’s too late. I already have. I want to marry you, and I’m asking you."
She started crying.
"If you want to wait before you give me an answer, that’s okay."
I got up to get her a box of tissues. When I returned, she was sitting on the chair in the kitchen. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and sat there.
"Tony, I really like you, but I’ve been thinking about B. J. for so long there’s no more room for anyone else in my heart. Can we be good friends?"
The next day I paid a visit to B.J.’s office in the Wilkinson Center. "B.J., I want to talk to you."
I told him about Cher and the way she felt about him. "The poor girl," he said. "I had no idea she felt so strongly about me."
"What are you going to do about it?" I asked him.
"I guess I’ll have to take my shirts to the cleaners and tell her to buzz off."
I slammed my hand down on his desk, breaking his plastic, desk name plate. "No, B.J., that’s not what you’re going to do. You’re going to take that girl out and try to fall in love with her. You are going to treat her like a queen, or some morning you’re going to wake up with your head shaved."
"Perhaps I should go out with her," he said quietly.
For the next several weeks, I stayed clear of Cher. I spent my late afternoons watching the Foucault pendulum swing, or listening to music, or taking long walks. Then I would go home around 8:00 and eat whatever was left. Cher was cooking for B. J. now. She made homemade wheat bread, beef stew, meatloaf—the things that B. J. liked.
It was especially bad when I knew they were going out, and I stayed away from campus for fear I’d see them together. Every couple seen from a distance looked like them. Every time I saw a girl with her head on some boy’s shoulder, I got cold chills. I wished I had never met her.
One weekend B. J. took Cher home with him to meet the family. That was the Saturday I ran. I got up early and put on sweat pants and sweat shirt and drove out to a country road. After parking the car I started running. Soon there was just the road, the pain in my side, and the crunch of my feet against the gravel. But the pain in my mind diminished as the pain in my side increased. So I kept on. Finally I collapsed on the side of the road. It was a long time before I could make myself get up and walk back to the car.
A couple of weeks later B. J. had to go to a conference of student leaders in New Mexico. That Tuesday night I entered the apartment at 8:00 expecting to see the usual empty kitchen with a plate of food in the refrigerator.
Cher was in the kitchen cooking. "I thought you were never coming," she said. "Sit down and get started."
She sat down across from me, and we said the blessing.
We got through the salad in silence. Removing the salad plate, she replaced it with a plate of lasagna and garlic bread.
"Why are you cooking with B. J. gone?"
"I get paid to cook here, remember?"
"But why did you wait for me? I’m two hours late."
"Your name Tony Versalino? Of Italian ancestry? You like Italian food?"
"Yes."
"That’s what it means."
"Cher?"
"Item five, a supporting attitude. ‘Like cooking his favorite food.’"
I put down my fork and held her hand. "What about B.J.?"
"He was a dream in my mind for all those years, but a dream with no reality. Besides, it finally occurred to me that it wasn’t necessary for all members of the Church to walk and talk and live like they came from Panguitch, Provo, or Parowan. I can’t fit the Utah-Mormon mold. I like the East, and I want to go back and help the Church grow there."
"You mean, the West is a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there?" I caught the aroma of her perfume in the last stages of its time-release cycle. "Lady, what you need is a nice Mormon boy from Pennsylvania."
"I don’t want to push you, Tony."
"I’m your man."
"You know what Daddy is going to say?" Cher said. "‘Queens? He’s from Queens? I send you by plane across the country, you live in a desert for years, and you find a husband from Queens? For Queens, I could pay subway fare. Now you tell me you want to get married in a temple in Utah? We got plenty of temples in New York, and I know a rabbi …’"
For dessert we had a dish of Italian ice.

The first time I truly realized how much we control our view of circumstances was while on my mission. One night I was writing in my journal when my companion came into the room. She said, “I just hate to write in my journal.”

Well, to be honest, I don’t particularly like the physical act of picking up a pen and writing in my journal, so I thought that’s what she was talking about. I replied, “I know what you mean. What don’t you like about it?”

To this she responded, “Nothing good ever happens to me.”

I nearly fell off of my chair. If you have been on a mission or know anyone who has, you know that companions are like conjoined twins all of their waking hours. Nothing happens to one that doesn’t happen to the other. I was literally filling my journal with interesting, spiritual, even exciting events, and she, who had witnessed or experienced all of the same events, felt that nothing good ever happened to her. I was astounded, and saddened.

Like every mayor, Lindsay Anderson had to deal with the headaches of bureaucracy, endless meetings, and special-interest groups. Unlike other mayors, Lindsay had to do it all after school let out for the day.
West Bountiful, Utah, the town Lindsay calls home, is also home to a unique program that puts the youth of the town in the driver’s seat of city government. In order to give the youth an experience in leadership, the city council appoints a youth mayor and city council. Although the town has another, adult mayor, the youth mayor and council are responsible for activities and programs for the youth of West Bountiful. They also give their input and ideas to the regular city council.
“We hold meetings about every other week, and we plan for upcoming holidays like dances for the youth and Easter egg hunts for the little kids.”
Lindsay and her council have also begun work on ideas to help youth at risk, brainstorming ideas to help teenagers stay involved in positive activities. One successful program that is already in place is the West Bountiful Fourth of July dance.
“It’s great because we get such a huge response to the dance,” says Lindsay. “It’s a place to come and have a good time and stay out of trouble.”
As youth mayor, and before that as a member of the youth city council, Lindsay has learned a lot about how to manage people without stifling their creativity.
“During meetings it was hard to get everyone quiet, but that was kind of neat because they were all talking about their ideas. I’m not a shy person, but I don’t like to dominate people, so I like to be receptive to their ideas. That’s fun.”
Lindsay finds her inspiration in the two individuals she admires most: her father and Jesus Christ.
“My dad is a role model for sure. I love him. Also I learned that Jesus had a whole group of people to bring together. He taught by example and love. Like him, I hope that if I’m doing the right thing, people will follow in my footsteps.”
After a year in office, Lindsay has stepped down from her position, making way for a new youth mayor. As a Latter-day Saint, Lindsay believes in “obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law” (A of F 1:12). With a year of government experience under her belt, Lindsay may someday not only uphold the law; she may have a hand in making it.

Being a member of the Church for the past 13 years, I love visiting less-active members to see how they are doing and to share with them the love of Jesus Christ for His children. I remember one Saturday, kneeling down and praying to Heavenly Father to help me to reach those who need my comfort and to understand Christ’s love for them. When I finished my prayer, I felt a prompting of the Spirit to visit one of the less-active sisters. She hadn’t been to church for a long time. When I gave her a call, she told me she was in the hospital and was diagnosed with a serious illness. Although I am blind, I decided to go by myself to visit the sister, even though I didn’t get anyone to go with me to the hospital.
When she saw me, she was filled with joy and said, “You are the first person who visited me”. I shared with her the story of Lazarus, and how, because of his faith, Christ raised him from the dead (see John 11:1–44).
A few weeks later, this sister came to church and gave her testimony about her first visit by a member of the Church. She shared how it strengthened her testimony and gave her a new hope in life to understand our Heavenly Father’s plan for His children.

Sam Beaver and his father are in Canada on a camping trip. Sam likes to explore and finds two trumpeter swans and their nest of five eggs at the edge of a pond. Sam watches the nest, and finally five little cygnets hatch. The swans discover that one of their little ones, Louis, is different—he doesn’t have a voice. Sam tries to help; he takes Louis to school, where the swan learns to read. Things go well until the beautiful lady swan, Serena, spurns Louis because he is defective. Louis’s father decides his son must have a voice, and so he steals a trumpet for Louis. The story of how Louis struggles to pay off his father’s debt, becomes a successful trumpeter, and wins Serena is an exciting tale.

At recess, I noticed that some of my friends were making fun of another girl named Chelsea. My friends were kicking her lunch box and smashing it. They called her names. I couldn’t believe that my friends were doing that. Later, I saw them doing it again, so I told them to stop it. Then I smiled at Chelsea, and we walked over to a bench and sat down. We talked and became good friends.
The other girls came back and started again. One girl said, “Let’s not be friends with Tambre anymore!” It made me so sad I started to cry. We all got called to the principal’s office to talk about the situation. The girls knew what they had done was wrong. After we got out of the office, the girls apologized to Chelsea and me. They all wrote us sorry notes. After that we all became friends!

Bradley pedaled along the gravel bike path through the park, pumping hard and spraying gravel as he turned the corners. In a few minutes the school tardy bell would ring. He had been late twice already this month, and if he was late again, the school would call his mother. He just couldn’t let that happen.
His father had died when he was two years old, and since then he and his mother had lived alone. She worked the early shift at the hospital so that she could be home with him in the afternoons and evenings, but it meant that he had to get ready for school by himself and make his own breakfast. They had decided that an eleven-year-old could manage those things on his own. If the school called Mom at work, she’d be disappointed and worried. She might even hire Sister Williams again to help him get ready for school.
Suddenly Bradley skidded to a stop next to a black leather wallet, thick with papers and cards. It took him only a moment to scoop it up, slip it into his backpack, and be on his way.
Some early-morning jogger or someone taking a walk must have dropped the wallet, he decided. A fat wallet like this must contain lots of money. He thought about how tired his mother was after her shift at the hospital and about how little money they had after she paid the rent and bought food and clothes. They seldom had anything extra nice. Take his old bicycle, for instance. Mom had been so excited to find it at a garage sale so that he could have a motocross bike like everyone else that he could never tell her how much teasing he got because it was so battered and scratched. His mother’s birthday was just two days away, and even more than he wanted a new bicycle, he wanted to give her a really nice birthday present.
He shoved his bike into the rack in the school yard and hurried inside, dropping into his seat just as the bell rang. During recess, Bradley went into one of the cubicles in the lavatory. He dug the wallet out of his backpack and opened it. His fingers trembled as he took out the bills: twenty, forty, sixty—sixty dollars! He stuffed the money back inside and pulled out some cards, searching for a driver’s license. When he found it, the picture of a woman stared back at him. She had big brown eyes and wavy hair, her name was Maryann Foster, and she lived not very far from him. A heavy feeling started in his stomach as he wondered if Mrs. Foster had a son. He put everything back into the wallet and shoved it into his jacket pocket. Finders-keepers, he thought. But there was a tight feeling in his chest.
When Bradley got home after school, he tiptoed into the house and hurried to his room to hide the wallet. He sat down on his bed and thought about the birthday present that he could buy. For some reason, though, he didn’t feel happy.
He worked on his homework until his mother called him for supper. He kissed her and sat down at the table.
"How was school?" she asked.
"OK, I guess."
"You sound unhappy. Did something happen at school that you want to talk about?"
"No, not really," he replied. "Mom, what would you like for your birthday?"
"Oh, Bradley, I know that you don’t have much money, so I don’t want you to worry about my birthday. Just having you is like getting a present every day."
"What if I told you that someone gave me some money?" Bradley felt his face grow red. The wallet was making him lie, and suddenly he hated it.
"Did someone give you some money?" his mother asked.
When he looked at his mother’s worried face, Bradley had to tell her the truth. "No, but this morning on my way to school I found a wallet. It has sixty dollars in it. I want to buy you a present."
"Finders-keepers?" his mother asked.
"I thought that we probably need the money more than anyone else. You’ve always said that I should pray for what I need, and I’ve been praying for a long time for some way to buy you a really nice present." Tears started to run down his cheeks.
"Do you think that if you really need it, that it’s all right to keep something that isn’t yours?" Mom asked in a quiet voice.
"No. I tried to tell myself that it was finders-keepers, but I didn’t really believe it. All I wanted to do was buy you something nice."
"I know, honey," said Mom, "but there’s a better present that you can give me than one bought with money."
Bradley got up and gave her a hug, then went upstairs to get the wallet.
After supper they started walking to Mrs. Foster’s. When they found her address, Bradley opened the gate, went up the sidewalk bordered with late-summer flowers, and rang the doorbell.
The door opened, and Bradley recognized Mrs. Foster from her picture. Clinging to her legs and staring at him shyly were two small children, and she had a baby in her arms. She looked tired, and there were worry lines creasing her forehead.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Uh … my name’s Bradley. This morning on my way to school, I found this, so I’m returning it to you." He held out the wallet.
The woman stared at him a moment, speechless. Then her face crumpled, and she started to cry. "I’m sorry," she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron. "Won’t you please come in?"
When they were sitting inside, Bradley noticed that the furniture was old and that all the toys on the floor were in bad shape.
"Oh, Bradley," said Mrs. Foster, "I’m grateful that you are honest. When I couldn’t find the wallet, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been praying all day that whoever found my wallet would return it to me. Thank you for answering my prayer."
Later, as they were walking home, Mom asked, "When Mrs. Foster tried to give you some money for a reward, why didn’t you take it?"
"Well, I decided that I didn’t really need the money so much. When I first found the wallet, I thought that it was the answer to my prayer. But I’m happier now to have been the answer to Mrs. Foster’s prayer. I think that she needs the money more than we do."
"Oh, Bradley," said Mom, hugging him. "I’m proud of you! You really are the best birthday present that any mother could have!"

I was born in Spain and lived there for eight years. We didn’t go to church a lot, so I wasn’t baptized when I turned eight, but I really wanted to be. One day I asked my parents why we weren’t going to church anymore and why I wasn’t baptized.
As I explained to them my desire to be baptized, it touched their hearts, and we started going to church again. It felt good. My mom was such a good example and an inspiration to me. She had a strong testimony and often read the scriptures.
Later on, we moved to Venezuela, where my dad is from. We lived there for two years, and because of the difficulties in the economy, we faced a lot of challenges. But there were good things too. I loved the food, and I had family there who were anxious to meet me. They were such humble people, and we all went to church together and felt the Spirit.
Even though we were going to church and I could feel the Spirit, I knew my family and I were missing something. I really felt that we needed to be sealed as an eternal family. One Sunday morning, the bishop invited everyone in the congregation to read the Book of Mormon before the end of the year. I knew this would help my parents and me more fully live the gospel of the Lord. Little by little, as we read the Book of Mormon, the Savior started giving us more knowledge and blessings, and we continued to read the scriptures regularly.
Soon I got baptized. I could really feel the Spirit in my life, and my parents did too. My testimony started growing more. We moved to Florida, USA, and we had to make a lot of changes and sacrifices again, just like when we left Spain. But our testimonies were growing stronger. We went to church every week and kept reading the scriptures.
After a lot of effort and a lot of reading the scriptures, praying, and choosing the right, we wanted to get sealed as an eternal family. We talked to our bishop, and even though it took some time, the day finally arrived. We were so excited to go inside the temple.
I got to do baptisms while I waited for my parents to complete the temple work for themselves. I felt like I was getting baptized again. I was really happy I could help people beyond the veil. Now my family and I go to the temple every week. I regularly do baptisms because I love helping there. I am so glad I got to be sealed in the temple to my parents for eternity and have the opportunity to live forever with them.