Gospel Story Finder

Valerie Bean, 14, picked up a piece of wood, a twig really, and tossed it to the flames. She kept reviewing what another ranger—this one a Latter-day Saint named Lee Skabelund—had said the night before at the fireside.
He had quoted from the scriptures.
“All things which come of the earth … are made for the benefit and the use of man, both to please the eye and to gladden the heart;
“Yea, for food and for raiment, for taste and for smell, to strengthen the body and to enliven the soul.
“And it pleaseth God that he hath given all these things unto man; for unto this end were they made to be used, with judgment, not to excess, neither by extortion” (D&C 59:18–20).
Valerie thought of a campground she’d seen, littered with trash.
“It made me mad,” she thought. “I mean, if you ruin it, who’s going to fix it?”
Now, thinking about the scripture Brother Skabelund had quoted, she realized something important.
“I bet the Lord is disappointed when we don’t take care of the earth,” she thought.
She picked up another twig and fed it to the flames.

Last year around Thanksgiving, my family and I were sitting around the table, about ready to stuff ourselves full of warm, flavourful food. Starting our Thanksgiving tradition, my mom said, “Before we start to eat, let’s go around the table and say five things we’re grateful for. Don, would you like to start?”
“Sure thing,” my dad replied. “I’m grateful for you guys and your mom and that you’re always there for me even when work gets tough. I’m grateful for our home and that we’re all healthy and happy.” He turned to me. “What about you, Alison?”
“Um …” I said, thinking about how the year had flown by. It seemed like just yesterday that I was at last year’s Thanksgiving dinner, struggling to find five solid things for which I was grateful.
I thanked everyone in my family for being so loving and for each of their unique contributions in my life. This lifted my spirits for a few hours, but I soon felt like the gesture seemed inauthentic. Unsatisfied, I made a commitment to myself that I’d try to find reasons to be grateful every week instead of just around Thanksgiving.
This seemingly small decision made a huge difference in my life. I’m not sure how or if I’ve made a difference to my parents or siblings by being more grateful toward them, but I know I’ve been blessed. By committing to being more grateful in my life, I’ve been able to develop a stronger relationship with both my family and my Heavenly Father—something definitely worth feeling grateful for.

Congratulations to the Figueroa sisters of Puerto Rico, 16-year-old identical triplets who were baptized not long ago. The missionaries had visited their home more than seven years ago but hadn’t returned. One day last year, Belen felt inspired to take a different route home from school, where she found other elders. She approached them and asked them to come teach her family.
They did, and soon Awilda, Belen, Cecilia, and Carmen (an older sister) were baptized.
They’re all active in the Trujillo Alto Ward and love seminary and Young Women.

One final example of how we saw my father’s beliefs through his actions comes from my niece Amberly and her husband, Jason. When they were dating they went to visit my father in the month before his surgery. Since Amberly was attending Ricks College—now BYU–Idaho—in Rexburg, she would often go to Logan on the weekends to visit her grandparents, and she had seen my father’s health deteriorate. On this particular visit she had brought Jason, who was then her boyfriend. Being the boyfriend, Jason slept on the couch, and there he witnessed my father restlessly wandering about the house all night trying to find a comfortable chair in which he could sleep.

This restless night preceded a Sunday morning when my father was scheduled to teach a Gospel Doctrine class in his ward. As Amberly and Jason watched my father walk across the church parking lot, they wondered if he would make it because each step required great effort and concentration. Here is the rest of the story in Amberly’s own words:

When it came time for his Gospel Doctrine ­lesson, he taught Alma 5. I knew he was dying. He had been dying for several years, and as I sat listening to one of my favorite people in the world talk about being prepared to meet God, I was overwhelmed by the Spirit and my love for my grandpa. Personal preparation is a lifelong effort, and my grandpa was a living example of that preparation.

He ended his powerful lesson by saying, “I hope that when I leave this life and see God, I can say, as the Apostle Paul did: ‘I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith’” [2 Timothy 4:7]. I knew what a fight he had made just to get into the building. And then he stood for fifty minutes to teach the lesson. He had fought a good fight, finished his course, and kept the faith that very day. My perspective on preparation and enduring to the end was forever changed by the faithful example of my grandpa that day.

On that day, my niece and her boyfriend saw the strength of my father’s testimony and saw what he believed through the faithful way in which he magnified his calling.

Later, as I served in the British Mission, in 1962 our mission president, Marion D. Hanks, had us read and study the Book of Mormon. We were asked to first mark everything having to do with the Savior in red. In the second reading we marked doctrine in a different color; I chose green. President Hanks had been a General Authority for nine years before serving as our mission president. He would teach us the doctrine after we had marked the Book of Mormon. In reading 2 Nephi 5:21, describing a skin of blackness associated with being cut off from the Lord’s presence approximately 600 years before Christ’s birth, President Hanks was adamant that this phrase related solely to that people and during that period of time. Those people who were Lamanites were literal blood brothers and sisters to Nephi and his siblings. President Hanks had us immediately turn to 2 Nephi 26:33, which reads, in part:

And he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto God, both Jew and Gentile.

That was our doctrine then and that is our doctrine now. President Hanks made it clear that if anyone had feelings of racial superiority, they needed to repent.

Three days after Elder Harold B. Lee arrived in the mission field, he met a sister missionary, Sister Fern Tanner.
Mission companion: Elder Lee, this is Sister Tanner. Wish her happy birthday!
Harold: Pleased to meet you, Sister Tanner. And happy birthday to you!
Later, when he was released from his mission, he had an operation in Salt Lake City. Instead of making an uncomfortable trip back to Idaho, he stayed with Sister Tanner and her family to recover.
Fern: Can I bring you anything else, Harold? I hope you’re feeling all right.
Harold: Thank you, Fern. I’m feeling much better.
Sister Fern Tanner and Elder Harold B. Lee were married in the Salt Lake Temple on November 14, 1923. It was Fern’s birthday—exactly three years from the day they met.

Also, I feel there are unusual circumstances when cremation is preferable and in accordance with the mind and the will of the Lord. The experience of my mission president some twenty years ago in connection with the death of Mark Johnson Vest, an Indian member of the Cocoapas tribe, is a vivid and memorable example in point.

Brother Vest was branch president over an active group of Latter-day Saints at the time of his death. En route to Brother Vest’s funeral in Arizona the mission president prayed earnestly that the Lord would tell him why Brother Vest had been taken. As he prayed, he visualized Mark Johnson Vest standing in front of a large group of Indians, which he estimated to be about ten thousand. Mark was preaching the gospel to them. As he did so, one of the Indians in the middle of the group stood up and said, “Do not listen to this man. He is not a Lamanite. He is a Nephite!” After this, Mark Johnson Vest rose to his full stature and said, “I am not a Nephite! I am a Lamanite, and when I died I was cremated according to the custom of my people.”

When the mission president arrived at the town where the funeral was to be held, the stake president told him of a serious problem that had developed. Mark’s tribe, the Cocoapas, wanted him cremated according to their ancient customs. His wife’s tribe wanted him “properly buried.” The Cocoapas had said that if he were buried, they would dig him up so they could cremate him.

In his funeral talk the mission president related the vision he had had during the night. This settled the problem of cremation to the satisfaction of both tribes, and there was no more fighting among them over the matter. After the funeral service the mission president and his wife witnessed the cremation of Mark Johnson Vest.

As the weeks passed, I marveled that most often peace and joy, not grief, dominated my heart. I contemplated why. One day, I decided to research the words of our prophets and apostles that relate to grief and gratitude. They confirmed what I had already concluded: that I had been strengthened by the comforting power of Jesus Christ and His Atonement, along with my gratitude.
The title of a 2005 Ensign article by President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) struck me deeply. It was called “The Profound Power of Gratitude.” In that article, President Monson said:
“God in His infinite mercy has not left grieving loved ones to wonder. He has provided truth. He will inspire an upward reach, and His outstretched arms will embrace you. Jesus promises to one and all who grieve, ‘I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you’ [John 14:18].”2
I realized I had been experiencing God’s comfort and embrace. They were profound and powerful! They enabled me to look at John’s picture each morning and smile as I said, “Thank you!” to him and to God!
Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has perfectly described what I experienced: “When we are grateful to God in our circumstances, we can experience gentle peace in the midst of tribulation. In grief, we can still lift up our hearts in praise. In pain, we can glory in Christ’s Atonement. In the cold of bitter sorrow, we can experience the closeness and warmth of heaven’s embrace.”3
These blessings were what I had felt within minutes of John’s death and in the days since! I am grateful for the peace in my heart and how I continually feel God’s embrace. I never want to lose those feelings! And so, I continue to express gratitude daily for my sacred experiences, for gospel knowledge that brings me closer to Jesus Christ, for the strengthening comfort made possible by Him and His Atonement, and for an eternal perspective and the hope of spending eternity with my Johnny.

When Tom Holdman, whom I mentioned previously, was working on the San Antonio Texas Temple, he wanted to use agate stone in the stained glass windows. Agate looks like a rough rock on the outside, but it can have a vibrant, translucent appearance inside that lets light shine through, highlighting its beautiful, banded layers.

When Tom visited the temple site and mentioned his intention, the missionary overseeing the construction emotionally led Tom to a trailer full of rough stones. He explained that while digging the foundation, they had encountered essentially a cave full of rocks. Without quite knowing why, the construction missionary followed a prompting and instructed the crew to pull out and save all the stones from the cave before proceeding with the dig. This action resulted in significant teasing from the crew—because who saves a pile of rock? But now, standing in front of the trailer next to Tom, the missionary knew why he was led to do so. These stones, with their beautiful agate interiors, were carefully preserved in the earth, ready to come forth when God needed their vibrant quality to shine forth from His holy temple.

Later, Tom came across Isaiah’s prophecy about temples in 3 Nephi 22:12: “And I will make thy windows of agates” (also Isaiah 54:12). Today, Tom tries to include a piece of this prophesied agate in every temple he works on.

When business meetings brought me to my childhood hometown of Mansfield, Massachusetts, I looked up the Web page of my old middle school. At the end of a list of current faculty members was Mrs. Christine Pfeil, my eighth-grade English teacher who was a truly influential person in my life.
When I was in eighth grade, difficulties at home left me angry and distracted from school responsibilities. Other teachers didn’t pay attention to my altered attitude and slipping grades, but Mrs. Pfeil took a personal interest. She would never accept less than my best. Often she would write on my assignments, “You can do better—try again.” Grudgingly, I would redo the assignment, thinking, “OK, you want something better? I’ll give you something better!” In her class, I felt intelligent and appreciated. When I left Qualters Middle School after eighth grade, I knew I could succeed scholastically because of Mrs. Pfeil’s belief in me.
As I looked at her name on the Web page that day, it suddenly seemed overwhelmingly important to tell her as soon as possible how she had influenced my life. I determined to find her, so at noon the next day, I excused myself from a business meeting and sped to Qualters.
I had just tried her locked classroom door when I saw Mrs. Pfeil walking down the hallway. “Carl Nelson!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in 25 years! What are you doing here?”
Impelled to deliver my message, I began abruptly. “I feel I need to tell you personally how important you were in my life. In eighth grade I was going through difficult times, but you expected my best. Precious few demanded that much from me then. As far as I can tell, your faith in me was the major reason I began trusting in my own abilities. I don’t know what my life would have been like without a teacher like you.”
As I spoke, Mrs. Pfeil’s eyes became wet. “I have to tell you a story,” she said. “I have always wanted to be a writer, even though I felt God wanted me to teach. Last night I was feeling hurt that I had never received any appreciation for my work. I told God that unless I received some thanks the very next day, I was going to retire from teaching and work on my writing. And now here you come after all this time to thank me on this particular day—this blessing is almost too much!”
Mrs. Pfeil and I were unable to talk longer. Her students began arriving, and I left, humbled that Heavenly Father let me share in helping one of His children. Reflecting upon my brief experience with Mrs. Pfeil, I remained impressed that no matter who we are or what church we belong to, our loving Father works in our lives to answer our prayers.

Some people have to go through an inner change to make room for the Holy Ghost in their lives. For example, as a teenager I didn’t feel the Spirit in church meetings and often wondered why I was there. However, being married and becoming a mother developed my love and compassion, strengthened my testimony of Heavenly Father, and made me more receptive to a loving and compassionate Spirit.

Alexandra Sievers, 22Langenhorn Ward, Neumünster Germany Stake

I would like to now tell a final story of another young Latter-day Saint who showed great faith. This story will be part of Saints, Volume 4. We begin in Hong Kong in 1953.

In Hong Kong, Nora Koot yearned to have missionaries return to her part of the world. The China Mission had been established in Hong Kong in 1949. That same year, 11-year-old Nora, who had lost both of her parents, had fled the Communist revolution in mainland China to live with family members in Hong Kong. Nora soon met the missionaries. She attended church meetings for over a year until she and two of her half-sisters were baptized, becoming the first Chinese members of the Church in Hong Kong. This is a photograph of Nora and her sisters.

Nora had endured many trials in her young life, and the gospel filled her with a new sense of freedom and joy. She loved interacting with the missionaries. Two weeks after Nora’s baptism, fifteen more people joined the Church, including Nora’s aunt. The future of the Church in Hong Kong seemed bright.

But then, a little over a month after Nora’s baptism, the Chinese Mission was closed. Tensions between Hong Kong and Communist-controlled mainland China had escalated with the beginning of the Korean War, and the First Presidency felt the missionaries were no longer safe.

Four years had now passed since the missionaries’ departure; the Saints in Hong Kong had no priesthood holders, no sacrament, no building, and no materials but a Book of Mormon in English. Despite these challenges, Nora’s faith continued to grow, and she never lost hope that the missionaries would return. The year before, Elder Harold B. Lee and his wife Fern had visited Hong Kong during a tour of Asia. The visit was brief, just one day, and Elder and Sister Lee invited Church members and friends, 21 in total, to their hotel room for a sacrament meeting. The next day, Nora, then 15, went to say good-bye to the Lees as they boarded a shuttle bus for the airport. She felt the Spirit tell her, “Tell him to send the Church back.” Unsure what was happening, she said “What” aloud. “Tell him to send the Church back,” the voice said.

Nora stepped up to the bus, her eyes meeting the apostle’s. As Elder Lee stretched out a hand to say good-bye, tears streamed down Nora’s face as she said, “Please send the Church back to China. We Saints without the Church are like people without food. We need to be fed spiritually.” Elder Lee replied, “As long as we have a faithful, devoted band like you who without a shepherd, are remaining true, the Church is in China.”

Nora continued to pray that the missionaries would return. One day in August, she was working at a movie theater when she saw a tall, blonde, blue-eyed man approaching her. She suddenly realized it was Grant Heaton, a missionary who had taught her the gospel.

Grant had just arrived in Hong Kong and told Nora she was one of the first people he had sought out. After the missionaries’ removal from Hong Kong, he had finished his mission working among the Chinese people in Northern California. Soon after his mission ended, he married and he was then drafted into military service during the Korean conflict.

Grant told Nora that the mission was reopening and he had been called as the new Mission President. He was only twenty six years old, and he and his wife Luana were the parents of a six-month-old baby boy. Their stewardship in the new Southern Far East Mission included Hong Kong, Taiwan, the Philippines, and Guam.

Soon, Elder Joseph Fielding Smith of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles arrived for a visit. He praised the members for remaining faithful and then turned to Nora. He knew about her plea to Elder Lee, who had been so impressed by Nora’s faith that he had told Nora’s story during General Conference.

Nora’s prayers had been answered. “The sun [is] rising,” she thought. “Morning has returned to the Saints in Hong Kong!”

We then follow Nora as she becomes the first Chinese woman to serve a mission:

In early 1959, Sister Nora Koot and her companion, Sister Elaine Thurman, were on their way to Tai Po in the New Territories, an area of Hong Kong where missionaries had never proselyted.

Only a few years previously, the idea of the Church growing rapidly in Hong Kong might have seemed impossible. But now Nora’s district leader wanted to know what supplies she and her companion needed. Forty folding chairs and forty hymn books, Nora told him. She and Sister Thurman planned to set up the chairs in their living room apartment, so they could host Sunday School for the new investigators they planned to find.

The startled elder asked Nora if she really needed that many. “Yes, we do!” she answered confidently.

That week, Nora and Sister Thurman invited everyone they met to the service. Sunday came, and the two sisters set up the forty chairs and distributed the hymn books. They even constructed a makeshift pulpit by placing two suitcases side-by-side and draping a white cloth over the top. Then they opened the front door and waited.

One-by-one the visitors arrived. By the time the meeting started, all of the chairs were filled. Nora was grateful, but not entirely surprised. Throughout Hong Kong, missionary work was booming. Nearly a decade after the end of the Chinese civil war, the city still harbored hundreds of thousands of refugees seeking a better life. Some churches offered the refugees food in exchange for becoming members of their congregations. Hong Kong residents called them “Rice Christians.”

President Grant Heaton did not want the missionaries and local Church leaders to promise food in exchange for church attendance. He was so committed to the idea that investigators should have a true desire to learn the gospel before being baptized that he instituted a rigorous plan, requiring 17 pre-baptism lessons and another 20 after baptism.

It wasn’t long before there were enough members to form a branch in Nora’s area. She and her companion ran the meetings each Sunday, with Elders attending to bless the sacrament.

The pace at which the Church was growing made Nora think of Daniel’s dream in the Old Testament about a stone rolling down the mountain, getting bigger as it rolled, until it was so big it filled up the entire earth. Nora felt like she was helping to make that vision a reality. A final note on Nora: Some years later, she received her endowment at the temple in Laie.

When Addison Pratt left Tahiti in March 1847, he had hoped to find his family in California with the rest of the Saints. Yet having received no word from them—or anyone in the Church—in the last year, he did not know if they would actually be there. “To reflect that I am now on my way to them is a pleasant thought,” he wrote in his journal. “But the next thought that arises is: Where are they? Or where am I to find them?”20
Addison arrived at San Francisco Bay in June. There he found the Brooklyn Saints awaiting the return of Sam Brannan and the arrival of the main body of the Church. Believing Louisa and their children were on their way to the coast, Addison volunteered to go to the Saints’ settlement, New Hope, with four other men to harvest the Church’s wheat.
The group left a short time later in a boat. New Hope lay more than a hundred miles inland on a tributary of the San Joaquin River. For days, the men sailed along low marshy country with tall bulrushes by the riverbanks. Nearer the settlement, the ground hardened, and they traveled the rest of the way on foot over grassy prairies.
The site for New Hope was beautiful, but a nearby river had flooded a short time before, washing out some of the Saints’ wheat and leaving behind pools of stagnant water. At night, as Addison lay down to sleep, swarms of mosquitoes besieged the settlement. Addison and the others tried to beat them away or smoke them out, but with no success. And to make matters worse, coyotes and owls howled and hooted until daybreak, robbing the tired settlers of peace and quiet.21
The wheat harvest started the next morning. But Addison’s sleepless night caught up with him by noon, and he napped beneath the shade of a tree. This became an everyday routine as mosquitoes and the din of wild animals kept him awake night after night. When the harvest was over, Addison was happy to go.
“Had it not have been for the mosquitoes,” he wrote in his journal, “I should have enjoyed myself well there.”22
Back at San Francisco Bay, Addison began preparing a home for his family. By then, some members of the Mormon Battalion had arrived in California and received an honorable release. Sam Brannan also returned to the bay, still convinced that Brigham was foolish to settle in the Salt Lake Valley. “When he has fairly tried it,” he told some battalion veterans, “he will find that I was right and he was wrong.”
Sam delivered Brigham’s letter to the Saints in California, however, and many of those who had sailed on the Brooklyn or marched with the Mormon Battalion decided to emigrate to the Salt Lake Valley in the spring. Sam also had a letter for Addison from Louisa. She was still in Winter Quarters, but she too planned to come to the valley in the spring and settle with the body of the Saints.
Addison’s plans changed immediately. Come spring, he would head east with the departing Saints and meet up with his family.23

There is peace in Christ
When we learn of Him.
Feel the love He felt for us
When He bore our sins.1
Those are a few of the lyrics from the song “Peace in Christ,” which I played consistently in my home for a full year after my divorce.
My kids may have tired of me playing the same song over and over, but it helped bring me peace through the trials that the four of them and I have endured recently.
“Divorced single mother” is a title I never wished to receive. But life doesn’t always turn out the way you expect, even when you are trying to keep the commandments.
After 16 years of marriage, my husband and I got divorced. I was completely distraught and had to push away thoughts of devastation and worthlessness every morning as I awoke to my new reality. I often wondered if I could have done something differently to avoid this overwhelming course my life had taken.
Because we had moved from Arizona to Idaho several years ago, I had no family nearby to love and support us. I often felt completely and utterly alone in my sorrow.
But I wasn’t alone. The Savior Jesus Christ was with me, even in my darkest days and nights. His face showed through the faces of my ward family. My bishop and his sweet wife met with me and were there the night I realized my husband and I would be getting divorced. They were heartbroken for me and for my children.
My bishop continued to call and check on me in the difficult months that followed that night.
Brother and Sister John ministered to me and my children in so many ways. They have been an example of Christlike love.
My ministering brother had been with us since we first moved to Idaho. He made many efforts to befriend my then-husband. Not only did this good brother visit us monthly, but he also called or texted to offer his assistance when I stubbornly told him I didn’t need anything.
After my separation, he and his wife became ministering partners, and they lovingly, and without judgment, met with me often. They invited us to sit with them at the local Independence Day parade and to join their extended family at a barbecue.
Our ministering brother found out my children’s favorite characters and carved them into plastic pumpkins for Halloween. They have helped us string Christmas lights, prepare our home for winter, spray our weeds, answer the children’s questions about electronics, and dig my van out of the snow. They brought me the softest blanket as a Christmas gift, which has comforted me many nights when I’ve been lonely and uncertain of what life would bring.
But the most important act of service was the many priesthood blessings this kind brother bestowed upon me and my children. He truly was an example of the scripture, “They did watch over their people, and did nourish them with things pertaining to righteousness” (Mosiah 23:18). So many times, when my anxiety felt like it had reached its peak, he and his wife would come over to talk with me, and the conversation would end with my receiving a priesthood blessing.
He gave my children priesthood blessings before the school year started. He participated in my daughter’s confirmation. This loving couple’s generosity has been an example of Christ’s love for me and my kids.
My friendship with my Relief Society president (second from right) and other sisters in Relief Society has become one of the most amazing blessings in my life.
I also saw Christ in the face of my angelic Relief Society president. As soon as she heard I was struggling, she took me to lunch and let me spill my emotions and found ways to relate to me with her own life experiences. She texts me often to make sure my children and I are OK. She and two other women in my ward began inviting me to dinner, to go on walks, and to attend the temple with them. They’ve helped steam-clean my carpets and paint rooms. One of them taught me to dye and cut my own hair so that I could be more self-sufficient. The four of us have created a bond and friendship I never knew was possible during such a difficult trial. Their friendship has become one of the most amazing blessings in my life.
As Sister Elaine S. Dalton, former Young Women General President, said, “Your righteous influence and friendship can have an eternal effect not only on the lives of your associates but also on generations to come.”2 These ladies have made a profound impact not only on my life but on the lives of my children as well; they buoy me up and give me the strength to remain the mother my children need me to be.
Our bishop regularly checked on me and my children.
Though the bishop, ministering couple, and Relief Society president were called to serve our family, it never felt like we were an assignment. And so many others, who had no obligation whatsoever, have shown love to our family.
Two anonymous parties delivered gifts to my children at Christmas. The young men have done yard work, a ward member changed the locks on my doors, and a few others helped with my computer. We’ve received coupons to the pool, been treated to fun at a local water park, and been invited to numerous dinners and movie nights where we could relax with friends and be ourselves.
One sister, while babysitting my children, took them to the store to choose birthday presents to give to me. Another sister did the same with my children at Christmastime.
We’ve also received flowers or treats from people even when there hasn’t been a special occasion; they just wanted me to know I’m loved, thought about, and cared for.
I can testify that what President Jean Bingham, Relief Society General President, says is true: “Sometimes we think we have to do something grand and heroic to ‘count’ as serving our neighbors. Yet simple acts of service can have profound effects on others.”3
Even a small gesture helps me know that Christ hasn’t left me alone to deal with the unpredictability my life has become.
Photograph of simulated Bible scene by Welden C. Andersen
There is peace in Christ. When we sincerely and selflessly care for those around us who are struggling with major life challenges, we really can help them feel the unwavering love and peace of our Savior, Jesus Christ.
I know my Heavenly Father has blessed me and my little family as we made the trek away from family in Arizona to live among strangers in Idaho. Those strangers have become like family. Their Christlike love and examples have helped to keep us strong and where we need to be.
My children and I are eager to serve after seeing how much service impacted our lives. We are living testimonies of what can happen when disciples of Christ follow the pattern of ministering taught in Moroni 6:4: “Their names were taken, that they might be remembered and nourished by the good word of God, to keep them in the right way, to keep them continually watchful unto prayer, relying alone upon the merits of Christ, who was the author and the finisher of their faith.”
I am grateful for my ward family, who remembered and nourished us so that we could keep our hearts turned to the Savior.

My father never made much money, but my parents were honest and hard working, and they taught these values to their children. My father worked at a copper mine. He didn’t earn enough money to send his sons and daughters on missions or to college, so my parents bought 1,000 chickens for us to raise so that we could sell the eggs. They also contracted to deliver a large number of newspapers each evening to our neighbors.
Most of the money from the eggs and delivering newspapers went into the bank to help pay for our education and our missions. Five of the children used the money to serve missions and all seven graduated from college. The lessons of value that my parents taught me on honesty, hard work, the Word of Wisdom, the law of chastity, and many other things continue to bless my life.

This year I had to make a hard choice between watching general conference on Saturday morning or playing in my last soccer game. My mom told me that I could decide for myself. I chose to stay home and watch general conference and listen to the prophet because it is what Heavenly Father wants me to do. Even though I really wanted to play soccer, Heavenly Father helped me feel happy inside about my choosing the right.

I was on a freight ship going to the Society Islands a few years ago, and I was up in the chart room with the captain who was checking his charts, and I said, “Where are we about now?” He showed me on the map and then said, “Would you like to see where we are going?” I said, “Sure.” He walked over to some kind of a contraption, turned a couple of dials and said, “That’s where we’re going.” I looked into a piece of glass about so square and I saw a beautiful island. I had never seen it before in my life. It was the island of Tahiti, and I was looking at it from that ship hundreds of miles away.

Now he didn’t have a kodak, with a large telescopic lens taking a picture of Tahiti and showing me the proof and the print. He had an instrument that could reach out and bring into his vision islands hundreds of miles away. He turned another dial, and I saw several ships. He said, “Those ships are on their way to Australia.”

Now, I don’t doubt anymore about the angel Moroni coming into the Prophet’s home. Man hasn’t yet harnessed all of these elements. He’s working at it and meeting with great success. But if I could bring the island of Tahiti by turning a dial in the chart room of that freight ship, God can send a resurrected being through walls and rooms into the home of a young inquiring mind that is seeking truth.

The choirmaster of St. Michael’s Church looked up in surprise at the two travel-stained young boys the doorkeeper had just brought into the room. “What’s that you say?” he asked, turning to the youngsters. “You want to sing in my choir?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Please take us into your choir and school,” both boys answered at once, their eyes lighting up and brightening their faces in spite of their tired, dusty appearance.
“You must be able to sing well to join the choir of St. Michael’s,” the choirmaster said. “But first, tell me about yourselves. What are your names, and where are you from?”
“My name is Sebastian Bach,” the younger of the two boys said. “This is my Georg Erdmann. We have come from Ohrdruf.”
“Bach. Ah, yes,” the choirmaster said. The musical Bach family, he mused. How well they are known throughout the countryside. “But tell me,” he said, turning to the boys and staring into their dusty faces, “Ohrdruf is two hundred miles away. Surely you did not walk all the way here to Lüneburg.”
“Yes, sir, we did,” Sebastian answered.
“Except when a kindly old man gave us a ride in his oxcart,” Georg added.
“Sir,” Sebastian said. “We have a letter for you from our choirmaster in Ohrdruf. He told us to come here.”
“He said that to sing in your choir would pay for our tuition and lodging at St. Michael’s,” Georg added.
“Yes, that is so,” the choirmaster said, “and you must sing well, or Elias Herda would not have recommended you. But now you must have food and rest. Tomorrow we shall hear you sing.”
Sebastian and Georg ate heartily the soup and bread that were placed before them. When they finished, they sat wrapped in blankets before a warm fire. Soon they were sound asleep.
The next morning, when the choirmaster saw how easily they could read music and heard what clear, beautiful tones they sang with, he was delighted. “Yes, indeed,” he said, nodding his approval. “We certainly have a place for such fine voices in our choir.” Turning to Sebastian, he said, “Even for a Bach, your musical training has been superior.”
“My brother Christoph taught me a lot the last five years,” Sebastian told him. “When my parents died, I went to live with him in Ohrdruf.”
Sebastian’s home had been in Eisenach, Germany. Like almost all the other male Bachs, his first name was Johann. His family was very musical, and there was always much singing and music-making in their home. In fact, once a year all the Bach relatives gathered together for a three-day music fest.
When Sebastian went to live with his brother, Christoph taught him to play the clavier, which was a forerunner of the piano. Christoph taught him to play other musical instruments, too, and it was the organ that thrilled Sebastian the most. He loved to sit in church and listen to the music flowing from the mighty instrument. It was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. Now that I am in the choir school, I want to learn to play the organ better, he thought.
Sebastian eagerly began his new life at St. Michael’s. There were other lessons to study, but he was happiest when it was time for music. When his voice changed and he could no longer sing in his fine soprano tones, he played the violin and other instruments in the church orchestra. He spent countless hours practicing the music of the great masters and learning from them. Many, many years later Johann Sebastian Bach would be considered one of the greatest masters of music, but today he was just a young boy eagerly learning all he could from the opportunities he found before him.
One of those opportunities was that of studying the organ with the accomplished Georg Böhm, organist of St. John’s Church in Lüneburg. Sebastian loved to send the music echoing through the church, sometimes softly, sometimes loudly. Melodies began to flow through his mind, and he wrote them down.
During his lifetime Sebastian became famous as an organist. Most of the music he wrote was played or sung in churches. But although he wrote a vast amount of music, very little of his work was published in his lifetime. It was not until Mozart, and later Beethoven, heard the music of Johann Sebastian Bach and taught it to their students and presented it to the world that people realized what a great genius Bach was. March 21, 1985, will be the three hundredth anniversary of his birth. Today, Johann Sebastian Bach is still bringing joy to those who listen to his beautiful music.

As part of the UK‘s coronation celebrations, Monday 8th March was designated the Big Help Out Day. On this bank holiday, individuals, groups and communities were encouraged to give volunteer help. Members of the Belfast Stake assisted in the Windsor Community Garden rebuild in Belfast. This was organised by the Northern Ireland Inter-faith forum.
The Windsor Community Garden is a volunteer initiative created by a group of Baha‘i youth around 10 years ago. The previously small disused site on Lower Windsor Avenue has since flourished as local residents have cared for it and developed it.
Victor, who arrived as a refugee from Ukraine alongside his spouse, became the main caretaker of the garden a year ago. He highlighted that much of the wood for the raised beds was rotting away, and was in need of being replaced. So it was planned to rebuild the garden on the 8th as part of the Big Help Out.
It was a large project, and involved moving about 10 tonnes of soil. In recent years the Windsor area of Belfast has become increasingly diverse so the volunteers came from many different faith and belief backgrounds, and from many different nationalities.

Just a few days after Joseph’s talk with Carlos in the woodlot, Alvin lay desperately ill. At the sound of a door opening, Joseph’s glance flew in the direction of the sleeping room where his oldest brother had lain for three days in pain and distress. “How is he, Mother?” he inquired anxiously as Lucy emerged from the sickroom.
“Not good, Joseph. Not good at all.” She pushed back a wisp of hair from her pale face and studied the strings of herbs hanging from the rafters as though to find a remedy that would heal her beloved firstborn. “The doctors have tried everything they know. But nothing helps, Joseph. Nothing!” She shook her head hopelessly, and for a moment hid her face in her apron. When she looked up, an ashen calm had settled over her. “Alvin has called for each of you to come to his bedside.” Her voice trailed away to a whisper. “He wants to say good-bye.”
Joseph thought he couldn’t bear to see Alvin so white and still. Alvin, whom they all looked to, whose great strong arms had felled huge trees and had gently lifted Baby Lucy high up to the rafters. Now his eyes burned feverishly, and his tired voice rose and fell in a last farewell to each loved one.
He asked Hyrum to see that the new house was finished for their parents and admonished Sophronia to take care of them in their old age. He talked to each one in turn—Sam and William, then Catherine and Carlos. Each brother and sister listened with tear-filled eyes and heavy heart.
Then, calling Joseph to his bedside, Alvin leaned forward. “My time is short, Joseph. Be a good boy and do everything in your power to obtain the record.” His voice became stronger, urgent. “Be faithful to every instruction and keep every commandment given you.” There were a few more words and then Alvin, sinking back upon the pillow, asked for Baby Lucy, his little playmate sister.
“Oh, Amby, Amby!” she cried again and again, her wet cheek against his and her tiny arms wrapped tightly around his neck as though to rouse his once-strong body.
But as quietly as a clock stops ticking, Alvin’s great heart stopped beating. Outside a star fell and the night was darker than before.
Everyone in the neighborhood grieved over Alvin’s death. “A noble young man,” they said. And in the family there was an emptiness that didn’t ease.
Joseph shivered in the December wind as he helped pile earth and straw against the foundations of their log house to keep out the winter blasts. Less than three months had passed since Joseph’s visit with the angel Moroni, but the world about him had changed from burnished leaf to barren bough, and soon a cold whiteness would cover the ground.
His world had changed too. Where before he had felt vibrantly alive, every sense sharpened and intensified, there was now an actual physical ache as though part of him had been amputated. If I had lost my leg long ago, it couldn’t hurt worse, he thought numbly.
Then one evening Father Smith ignored the tightening in his throat. “Maybe we should talk about it—about Alvin,” he said gently. “He was taken from us in the bloom of youth, but the Lord was good when he sent Alvin to our family.” He dabbed the moisture from his eyes. “Life does take up after trial and tribulation.”
“Alvin was the one who started the new house,” Sam began.
“He told me to be a good girl and to help Mother and Father,” added Catherine.
Joseph didn’t know if it were proper to tell about the time he and Alvin were in a crowd watching two Irishmen fight. He remembered that when one was about to gouge out the other’s eyes, Alvin took him by his collar and breeches and threw him over the ring. But aloud, he only said: “Alvin stood for the right. He was the strongest and bravest of all.”
Winter melted into spring. It was time to mend the fences and stone walls that marked the boundaries of the Smith farm. In the grinding labor of plowing, sowing, and cultivating, there was no time for Joseph to rest. But there was time for pondering the things the angel had taught him. He would resolve with every fiber of his being to become worthy of such a trust.
Joseph still longed to share his thoughts with Alvin. But gradually he discovered that though his yearning need to talk with him didn’t diminish, his grief subsided. As the shoots of pale green pushed up through the black earth, Joseph took comfort in a new closeness to God and his creations. Never had the violets seemed so velvety, the leaves so tender, the birdsongs so poignant. Laboring with his hands day after day, he felt himself growing in strength and power. And always there was the awareness of the high hill and the records and the angel Moroni. Four years seemed forever. Even one September to another was a lifetime.