Gospel Story Finder

“They’re putting the Angel Moroni statue on the temple!” cried Nicole. Joey, her three-year-old brother, ran to the window to see.
Nicole’s best friend, Kim, was visiting from next door. She and Nicole watched the machinery and workers swarming over the building as the statue was lowered into place. “Remember our tree house that used to be over there?” Kim said sadly.
“A tree house is for a little time,” Nicole said. “A temple is forever.”
“Not being a Mormon, I wouldn’t know,” answered Kim.
Nicole remembered watching day after day as the equipment crunched and leveled the desert. It had seemed like the groundwork had taken forever. But gradually the majestic, white Las Vegas Nevada Temple had risen at the foot of Sunrise Mountain. Six white spires reached toward the sky.
“They’re like fingers,” Mom said, “directing our thoughts heavenward.”
And now a great statue of the Angel Moroni, golden, with uplifted trumpet, was placed on the spire over the east entrance.
By November, grass, shrubbery, and flowers had all been planted behind a graceful iron fence. Trees were in place. The temple was completed.
Nicole invited Kim to go to the temple open house with her and her family.
“I’m not a Mormon,” Kim reminded her.
“Everybody is invited to the open house before the temple is dedicated,” Nicole assured her.
“My parents may not let me go,” said Kim. “They think Mormons are strange.”
“Do they think my family is strange?”
“Of course not,” said Kim. “They know you.”
Nicole laughed. “If they knew other Mormons, they wouldn’t think they were strange, either.”
“Let’s ask if I can go,” said Kim.
A few minutes later Nicole burst back into the house. “Kim’s mom said she could go to the open house!”
The next morning Nicole lay on her stomach in the living room. Using her new magic markers, she made a poster for Primary. Mom held Joey on her lap, reading a story about a tiger to him. When she finished, Joey asked to hear it “lots more.”
After Mom read it again, she closed the book. “It’s time to get ready for the open house,” she said.
Nicole called Kim, then scurried upstairs to dress. Mom and Dad were waiting for her when she came down.
“Where’s Joey?” Mom asked. “I dressed him in his new suit and told him to wait here.”
Nicole went to find him. She came back leading a squirming Joey. Everybody laughed—Joey had found the magic markers. He had bright orange and black stripes on his face and arms.
“I’m a tiger,” he announced.
“Tigers can’t go to the temple,” Mom said. “Temples are quiet places. Let’s wash the stripes off so that a reverent Joey can go.”
Just as Kim arrived, Mom returned with a freshly scrubbed Joey. They all walked across the street to the temple and waited their turn to sit in the rows of chairs where people helped them slip surgical booties over their shoes.
“These are to keep the new carpet clean,” Nicole explained quietly to Kim.
“No, Joey,” Nicole heard Mom whisper.
Joey had booties on both hands and feet. “A tiger has four paws,” Joey protested as Mom took the booties from his hands.
“Remember that the tiger changed his stripes back home—you’re Joey,” Mom reminded him softly as she tried to calm him down.
Nicole and Kim went ahead, followed by Mom, Dad, and Joey. Men and women dressed in white directed lines of people walking silently on the soft, rose-colored carpet.
Looking at lovely pictures on the rose-tinted walls, Kim whispered, “Why do you have pictures of Jesus everywhere? I thought you worshiped Mormon.”
“Our church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Nicole whispered back. “Mormon was a keeper of ancient records and a prophet, but we don’t worship him.”
The two girls stopped to look at the beautiful white baptismal font resting on the back of twelve oxen. “We do baptisms for the dead here,” Nicole quietly told her friend.
Kim’s eyes widened. “You baptize dead people?”
“No, no!” whispered Nicole. “Everyone eight years of age or older needs to be baptized to live with Heavenly Father again. Many people have died without baptism, so living people come to the temple and are baptized for them.”
Nicole and Kim passed elegant tables on which were beautiful vases with lovely flower arrangements. Nicole was happy to share this quiet beauty with her best friend.
The two girls peeked into a sealing room. “This is where I’ll be married,” Nicole said softly. “I’ll be dressed in my white wedding gown, and my Church friends and family will be with me.”
In the celestial room, Nicole gazed at the crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead. Sunshine sifted through the cut-glass windows, splashing bits of rainbows about on the room’s furniture and white walls.
“Where’s Joey?” Mom whispered worriedly. “He slipped away from me at the door.”
Nicole began a frantic search. She turned when she heard a low growl. There was Joey’s head behind a big potted palm!
“Never bother a tiger!” he growled softly.
Nicole took his hand and said calmly and quietly, “Tigers are not allowed in the temple—only reverent people. You changed your stripes. You’re Joey, remember?”
Dad carried Joey the rest of the way. At home, he said, “Now you can be a tiger again.”
“This tiger changed his stripes,” said Joey. “I’m Joey now, and when I grow up, I’m going to the temple again.”
The next day when Kim came, she said, “I told Mom and Dad all about the temple, and we’re all going to the open house today!”
After Kim left, Nicole ran to tell Mom. “Do you think they might join the Church?” she asked.
Mom took hot loaves of date nut bread from the oven. She sliced one, spread honey on three slices, and gave one to each of them and to Joey, who had followed his nose to the kitchen. “We can hope so, but you and Kim will still be friends if they don’t, won’t you?”
Nicole smiled at Joey licking honey from his bread. “Yes, Mom, but you know—if a tiger can change his stripes, anything is possible.”

My husband and I recently attended a commencement exercise for our oldest son, Tom, who was graduating from law school. On graduation day, as I strained to get a glimpse of Tom in the sea of caps and gowns, my eyes searched for his face, but my heart and mind were traveling through time to years gone by. My momentary vision was blurred by a flood of memories mixed with tears. Let me share just one of those memories with you.
I remembered a little boy of three who was trying to write his name. I had written T O M for him on a piece of paper and then left him to practice while I bathed the baby. A little later he proudly showed me his finished product: M O T, it clearly read. Because of my experience as a school teacher, I was aware that young children often read and write in reverse, a condition that sometimes continues into adulthood. Fortunately, it turned out that Tom’s problem was easily solved, but at that moment my mind was full of possibilities and solutions.
I suggested that he should write the T first. He came back again a few minutes later with the same result: M O T.
I put my hand on his to guide him, explaining that we would begin with the T first, but he pulled away from me insisting, “I always start with the T and you always say it’s wrong. I just can’t do it.” And with that, he tore the paper into little pieces and threw them away. He was in no mood for a writing lesson, so we went for a walk. Later that night, when he felt like trying again, we got out a new sheet of paper. He wrote his name in big letters (this time for his dad). I watched him from across the room, and he was right. He did start with the T. His problem was that he then moved to the left with the next two letters instead of to the right!
Before I had a chance to explain that our child’s self-esteem was at stake, his dad teased, “Oh, I didn’t know we had a little boy named Mot.” Well, at that point, the evening was all over for Tom. No amount of praise for the well-formed letters or suggestions that we would help him do it right consoled him. Right there, at age three, Tom believed he was a failure. As I sat by his bed and soothed him to sleep, I knew better. I saw potential in him that he could not see in himself. I knew, though he did not, that he would learn to write his name, but that was not the important point. Even if he never learned to write his name he would not be a failure in my eyes.
As I watched his little body relax into sleep and reflected on the day’s events, I felt very much the protective parent, and I wondered how often our Heavenly Father sees us in just that same way. Hasn’t he told us, “As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; … And when ye see this, your heart shall rejoice” (Isa. 66:13–14). How many times when we see ourselves as failures does Heavenly Father wish he could pick us up from despair, hold us in his arms and tell us that we are not failures, and that if we will have faith, he will help us overcome our trials?
Certainly it would have been easier for me to have written Tom’s name correctly every time he wanted it on something, but I knew that the only way he would learn would be for him to do it himself. My job was to show him how, to point him in the right direction. In the same way, our Heavenly Father wants us to grow through our own experiences. This means he probably won’t solve our calculus problems for us, pay our tuition, write our English papers, study our chemistry, or turn our roommates into perfect people. But he will help us and give us direction—if we ask for his help. As we do the work, our Father in Heaven will help lift our burdens. You might think of it as a joint effort. Remember the Lord’s promise to us: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).
Eventually, Tom was writing his name everywhere (yes, all three letters in the correct order). We found Tom written in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our house, on a piece of paper taped to his bedroom door, in crayon on the kitchen countertop, and in the dust over and over on our unwashed car. With that last accomplishment he proudly took me outside to show off what he had done. The look of triumph in his eyes made me certain that no amount of three-year-old spit and dust could possibly harm the finish on a car. I gave him a hug and didn’t even suggest that we would need to wash the car soon.

On an earlier trip a woman past 82 traveled with us. She had to prepare at length, exercise, and get constant reassurances from her physician that she could endure the rigors. We were touched that, as we turned our backs on a church that has been built near—and some say over—the ancient site of Gethsemane, she who had come so far and had lived so long was on her knees near the place where tradition says Jesus knelt.

Toward the end of World War II, my father was drafted into the German army and sent to the western front, leaving my mother alone to care for our family. Though I was only three years old, I can still remember this time of fear and hunger. We lived in Czechoslovakia, and with every passing day the war came nearer and the danger grew greater.
Finally, during the cold winter of 1944, my mother decided to flee to Germany, where her parents were living. She bundled us up and somehow managed to get us on one of the last refugee trains heading west. Traveling during that time was dangerous. Everywhere we went, the sound of explosions, the stressed faces, and ever-present hunger reminded us that we were in a war zone.
Along the way the train stopped occasionally to get supplies. One night during one of these stops, my mother hurried out of the train to search for some food for her four children. When she returned, to her great horror, the train and her children were gone!
She was weighed down with worry; desperate prayers filled her heart. She frantically searched the large and dark train station, urgently crisscrossing the numerous tracks while hoping against hope that the train had not already departed.
Perhaps I will never know all that went through my mother’s heart and mind on that black night as she searched through a grim railroad station for her lost children. That she was terrified, I have no doubt. I am certain it crossed her mind that if she did not find this train, she might never see her children again. I know with certainty: her faith overcame her fear, and her hope overcame her despair. She was not a woman who would sit and bemoan tragedy. She moved. She put her faith and hope into action.
And so she ran from track to track and from train to train until she finally found our train. It had been moved to a remote area of the station. There, at last, she found her children again.
I have often thought about that night and what my mother must have endured. If I could go back in time and sit by her side, I would ask her how she managed to go on in the face of her fears. I would ask about faith and hope and how she overcame despair.
While that is impossible, perhaps today I could sit by your side and by the side of any who might feel discouraged, worried, or lonely. Today I would like to speak with you about the infinite power of hope.

Ulisses’s naturally good heart blossomed as he learned the ways of the Lord. “I grew up in the Church following the light of my parents,” Elder Soares says. As he followed that light, his testimony grew stronger despite opposition.

“I was the only member of the Church in my school, and the other boys were always trying to drag me down and push me to do things that were wrong,” he says. “I had to learn to defend myself in these challenges, but I always trusted in the Lord with all my heart to help me succeed. I learned as a young man that if you do your part, the Lord will do His. But you have to hold tight to His hand and to His gospel.”

Many say that steps four and five, which focus on personal inventory and confession, are the most challenging. But it depends on the individual. Paula, who struggled with compulsive eating and overdependence in her relationships, worked hardest on step eight—forgiving and restoring relationships—as she tried to forgive her abusive father. She says now, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this miracle in my life: to love and forgive.”

When the Church began the new Children and Youth program, I heard our children and grandchildren discuss their plans for goals and lessons. I’m almost 80, but I wanted to be part of this great testimony-building opportunity.
My children and grandchildren live all over the country, so we can’t all meet in person. Instead, we decided to hold a monthly online meeting. One of the grandchildren would give a lesson and lead a gospel discussion. Afterward, everyone would share their goals and their progress in achieving them. Of course, some goals were personal, and we respected each person’s privacy.
As I talked with my grandchildren about their goals, I began to think about my own goals. What did I want to accomplish?
What a blessing the Children and Youth program has been for me and my family during the pandemic. Even though I’m home alone day after day, I have my goals. The grandkids continue to develop their talents and grow in the gospel, and I am able to support them. We look forward to our online family meetings and times of sharing.
And thanks to the inspiration that came while helping my grandchildren work on their goals, my focus is now more clearly set on my goals, both short-term and eternal. I work and pray every day to “let God prevail” in my life and the lives of my family members.2

In 2018, Latter-day Saint Robert Opiyo joined the only ice hockey club in East-Central Africa, the Kenya Ice Lions. At the time, there were fewer than 30 ice hockey players in all of Kenya, and 17 of them (15 men and 2 women) were members of the Ice Lions team.
Today, there are over 40 adult players and 40 youth players who practice at least twice a week. Robert used the skills he learned on his mission in Melbourne, Australia, as one of the team’s executive members.
Brother Opiyo dreams of the Olympics someday but is also content to be part of this pioneering endeavor. “Slowly more people hear about our desire and want to help us get there,” he said. “I’m grateful to have been a part that set the foundation for future generations.”

Emily sat on the top of the park bleachers, her arms folded across her thin chest. “Dumb old cousins,” she muttered to herself. “Who cares about them, anyway?” She blinked her eyes and tried to ignore the burning in her throat that meant she was about to cry. She stood up and trudged down the bleachers and across the grass to where her mom was talking to Aunt Betty.
“Mom,” Emily whined, flopping down on the picnic table bench. “I don’t like this family reunion. It’s boring, and none of the other kids will let me play with them.”
“Of course they will,” said Aunt Betty in amazement.
“No they won’t,” replied Emily glumly. “They won’t even talk to me.”
“Then talk to someone else,” suggested Mom.
“Like who? Everyone else here is old. They aren’t any fun.”
“Well, thanks a lot,” said Aunt Betty.
“Oh,” Emily admitted, “you’re different. You tell neat stories.” She put her head in her hands.
“Betty,” Mom said, “do you remember some of the stories that Dad used to tell us when we were little?”
Aunt Betty smiled. “Of course I remember. Hey! That’s what you can do, Emily,” she said. “I bet if you asked the right people, you’d hear some great old stories.”
“Oh, no one would tell me anything,” Emily grumped, but she was starting to smile a tiny bit.
“True,” said Mom, “they might not. But I bet there are a lot of good stories hidden out there just waiting to be told.”
Suddenly, Emily sat up very straight. “Yeah—I could be like a detective searching for lost treasure,” she said, scrambling off the picnic bench. “I’ll start with Grandpa Charles because I already know he tells good stories!”
After a few minutes of searching through the chatting groups of relatives, Emily found Grandpa Charles sitting on the grass with his arm around Grandma A’Dell. “Hi!” said Emily. “I’m a detective. Would you help me?”
“I’ll try,” said Grandpa. “What are you looking for?”
“Stories,” Emily said, “about when you were little.”
Now Emily was laughing too. “Thanks!” she said. “Now I’m going to find some other stories.” She saw Aunt Ruth and ran across the lawn to her.
Emily the story detective kept searching. She heard stories about her mom, who was born in a house instead of a hospital, and about Tony the pony that Uncle Josh used to ride—when he could stay on! Tony liked to scrape Josh off by running under a tree branch. She found out about the time when Great-Grandad Ernest went to the store to get fresh brown bread. The baker wrapped the bread in paper so that Grandad could carry it home. On the way, he got so hungry that he poked a little hole in the crust and ate the soft insides. “Mother was sure surprised to have hollow bread,” Grandad said, chuckling.
Emily was having so much fun that she forgot about the other kids. Then, while Uncle Al was telling her about getting his truck stuck in the mud, Brian and three other cousins came over to listen. They were just in time to hear the end of the story: “So I left the truck, walked home, got my sister and our other truck and went back,” said Uncle Al. “And wouldn’t you know, I got the second truck stuck too! My dad finally had to come with the tractor to pull them both out.”
When the story was over, Brian looked at Emily and asked, “Why is everyone telling you stories?”
“Because I’m a story detective,” she said.
“Can we play?” Rachel asked wistfully.
Emily wanted to say no because they wouldn’t play with her before. But she felt too happy to be mean.
“Sure,” she said. “Let’s go see Uncle Andy next.”

Looking back, I can think of many Good Samaritans who have influenced my life and the lives of others by going out of their ways to serve and teach. One of these Samaritans was a great-great-uncle of mine, who was in one of the first groups of pioneers to settle in Utah.
One severe winter he was dispatched to Carbon County to help other pioneers who were moving to that area but had been stranded by terrible snowstorms. Without hesitation my uncle responded to the call for help. He put the needs of others above his own and risked his life to bring many to safety. That story has been a source of inspiration to me. It has helped me to be more appreciative of my pioneer heritage and the people who willingly made sacrifices, facing troubles head-on.

As a young mother, I felt strongly that my husband and I should take our son to church. Although we had never discussed religion, we both believed in God. So I prayed, infrequently at first, that God would help me to know which church to attend.
When our first child was four years old, we had another son. I still didn’t know which church to join, but my prayers began to be more frequent and sincere.
Eighteen months later, my prayers became fervent. We were living in an apartment building in Davenport, Iowa. I loved to read, but I had read everything in our home. A new family from California had just moved in across the hall from us. I decided to get acquainted with my new neighbor: perhaps she had something good to read.
As soon as our son had left for school, I went visiting. After introductions and some casual conversation, I told her why I had come. She said they hadn’t had room in their rental truck to move their books, so they had had to leave them behind. However, she did have one book with her. It was the Book of Mormon.
My neighbor asked me if I had ever heard of the Mormons and I said, “Only what I learned in history class about Brigham Young leading pioneers to Utah.” Then she asked me if I liked history, and I replied yes. Then I would like the Book of Mormon, she said, because it was a history of some early Americans. I was excited since I had often wondered about the American Indians and where they had come from. She then began to tell me about Joseph Smith and how he had found golden plates and translated them. I was fascinated.
I was quite surprised to discover that my neighbor was not a member of the Church. Missionaries had taught her the gospel in California and she was sure it was true, but she felt unable to live the Word of Wisdom. “Be sure to read the Joseph Smith story first,” she told me. “You may borrow this Book of Mormon, but I want it back when you are finished.”
As I read Joseph Smith’s story, it was as though I were there with him, and I knew it was true. My neighbor checked in on me occasionally and was glad to hear that I believed what I was reading.
When I was about halfway through the book, I had to return it because we were moving. I didn’t want to give the book back, but my neighbor told me that I could call the missionaries and they would be glad to bring me a Book of Mormon of my own.
After we moved, I thought about calling the missionaries, but I kept delaying it. “Well, if this is really God’s true church,” I rationalized, “they will find me.”
One morning, as I was getting our son ready for school, I yelled at him, which was something I just never did. I immediately apologized, but I could see the hurt in his eyes. As he left, I watched him out the window, walking down the sidewalk with his head hanging down. He was usually so happy. I felt terrible, and in tears, I fell to my knees, begging Heavenly Father to forgive me. After praying for quite a while, I again asked God to please let me know in some way if the Book of Mormon was true and if this was his true church.
At ten o’clock that morning, there was a knock on my door. I opened it to see two young men dressed in suits. They told me that they were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I invited them in. Before long, they told me that when they prayed that morning asking to be guided to those who were seeking the truth, they had felt inspired to come to this area. At first they thought they must be wrong since this area had been tracted several times, but they both felt inspired to return, so they did.
I was baptized about two weeks later. Eighteen years later, my husband was also baptized; he served in the branch presidency, and we were sealed in the temple.
I am thankful for the Book of Mormon and for missionaries who were in tune with the Spirit enough that they knew where to find the one who was praying for their visit.

When gold was discovered in California in January of 1848, men of the Mormon Battalion were there and participated in the discovery. Completing their contract, they came to the Salt Lake Valley to join their families. Some of them brought with them gold; and in the hard and desperate days that followed, particularly in the bitter winter of 1848–49, many wanted to go to California where life was easier and gold was to be picked from the riverbeds. In that time of gloom, Brigham Young stood before the people in the old Bowery on Temple Square and said:

Some have asked me about going. I have told them that God has appointed this place for the gathering of his Saints, and you will do better right here than you will by going to the gold mines. . . .

We have been kicked out of the frying pan into the fire, out of the fire into the middle of the floor, and here we are and here we will stay. God has shown me that this is the spot to locate his people, and here is where they will prosper. . . .

. . . We shall build a city and a temple to the Most High God in this place. We will extend our settlements to the east and west, to the north and to the south, and we will build towns and cities by the hundreds, and thousands of the Saints will gather in from the nations of the earth. This will become the great highway of the nations. Kings and emperors and the noble and wise of the earth will visit us here, while the wicked and ungodly will envy us our comfortable homes and possessions. [Autobiography of James S. Brown (Life of a Pioneer), pp. 119–23, cited by Preston Nibley, Brigham Young: The Man and His Work (Salt Lake City: Deseret News Press, 1936), pp. 127–28]

What a remarkable statement under such circumstances! My heart goes out to those who were cold and hungry that winter of 1849. I am confident there was much of grumbling and criticism, and understandably so. But how marvelous when a man looked beyond the winter and spoke as a prophet, under the power of the Holy Spirit, of better days to come. Those days have come. This has become one of the great highways of the nations. Millions come to Temple Square. There are hundreds of flights daily in and out of here. Kings and emperors and the noble and wise of the earth visit us here. There’s scarcely a week when we do not have some prominent world figure call on us.

Sierra Leone was a sad place during my teenage years, but it was my home. For much of my life, my small West African country was torn by a civil war. The war affected everything. My family and I were constantly on the run, trying to escape the rebel soldiers. It was terrifying every time the rebels came through a city. Someone would see their torches approaching in the night, warn the others, and we would all run for the bush, grabbing whatever we could along the way.
About seven years after the war began, the rebels came to our city. My whole family was running to escape, but my parents, who were just a few steps behind me, were shot and killed. I was so sad to lose them, but I had to keep moving.
My brother, sister, and I moved to a safer place, and for a short while we were all right, but the rebels eventually hit that town, too. This time we didn’t have time to run away. My brother was taken and later killed. My sister and I were lined up outside with all the other women. The rebel soldiers were chopping limbs off of all the women in the line. We were all so frightened. Everyone was crying and praying—even people who had never believed in God before. I was not a member of the Church at the time, but I believed in God and prayed that His will would be done and hoped that He would find a way to save me.
My dear sister, who was several places ahead of me in line, had both of her legs cut off. But as the rebels reached the woman in front of me, our army came rushing in and the rebels ran away. I know that I was not better than the people who were in front of me or behind me, but I thanked God that I had been spared and prayed that I might understand His plan for me.
I moved to another village to live with a friend. As I was telling my story to my friend and some of her neighbors, one neighbor said, “Mariama, we don’t have anything to offer you except an invitation to church tomorrow. That’s where we find safety. That’s where we find hope.” I loved God already and needed comfort in my life, so I decided to go.
My first Sunday in that LDS branch is a day I will never forget. I learned of hope. You could just see that there was hope in those people, and I was drawn to them. I was given the Book of Mormon and started reading right away. I remember hearing in church about how families could be together again after death and then reading in Alma 11 where Alma teaches about how our bodies will be made perfect again in the Resurrection. I felt the Spirit so strong as I thought of my family. I knew that the Church was true and that we could be together forever—each of us well and whole.
There were no missionaries in Sierra Leone at that time, so I took the lessons from my branch president and was baptized soon after. We were blessed in our town, because the Church sent food and humanitarian kits for the members of the Church and others. The food kept us all alive. Everyone was so grateful even to receive a small bag of rice or beans. I received a blanket and a hygiene kit that included a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, a comb, and a washcloth.
Not long after, the rebels hit again. They burned down the house I was living in, and as I was running to escape the flames, I took time to save only two things—my scriptures and my hygiene kit. We had to live on the run for a while after that, and I used my hygiene kit to help those around me. I would squeeze out one pinch of toothpaste for each person, or we would go to the river and carefully pass my bar of soap from person to person. The kit was so precious to us. The blanket, too, was invaluable. It sheltered us for many days until I used it to wrap an old woman who had died and had nothing to be buried in.
Eventually, I went back to my town and my branch. It was then that I decided I wanted to serve a mission. This was a difficult decision for me, because I had nothing and would be leaving behind people I loved. As I was trying to decide, I read D&C 84:81 and 88, which say, “Therefore, take ye no thought for the morrow, for what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink, or wherewithal ye shall be clothed … for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.” I knew the Lord would care for me, so I turned in my mission papers and was called to the Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square Mission.
I arrived in Utah with practically nothing, but I insisted on bringing my hygiene kit, because it meant so much to me. One day, my companion and I were taking a tour of the Humanitarian Center in Salt Lake, and I recognized a blanket that had the Relief Society logo embroidered on it, just like the one I’d had in Sierra Leone. I looked around and saw hygiene kits like mine and familiar bags of beans and rice, and I began cry.
“This is where they came from!” I thought to myself. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I remembered what these things sitting in stacks in the Humanitarian Center in Salt Lake meant to my friends and to me in Sierra Leone. I was so grateful to the Lord for preserving me, for bringing the gospel into my life, and for allowing me to serve a mission. I knew that His angels truly had been round about me, to bear me up.

Cory stared at the clock in the Primary room. “When will this be over?” he wondered.
Now that Cory was in middle school, Primary didn’t seem as fun anymore. He knew all the scripture stories and the answers to all the questions. He thought the games and songs were for little kids.
Cory slumped in his chair. Then he remembered something he wanted to ask Austin about his new computer game. “I need your help on this one level,” he whispered.
Sister Evans tapped Cory on his shoulder. “Please sing,” she said. Cory waited for Sister Evans to look away and then finished talking to Austin.
On the drive home from church, Mom asked, “How was Primary?”
“Fine,” Cory said. He didn’t remember much about it.
“Sister Evans asked me if she could come over for a visit tomorrow after school,” Mom said.
Cory swallowed hard. “Um, OK.”
The next day at school, Cory worried about what Sister Evans would say. “She probably wants to remind me that I shouldn’t talk during Primary,” he thought.
That afternoon, Cory was playing his new game when the doorbell rang. He looked up to see Mom inviting Sister Evans in.
“Hi, Cory,” Sister Evans said. She sat down and got right to the point. “How can I help make Primary a place you want to be?”
Cory started to say he liked Primary fine, but it seemed like Sister Evans wanted to hear what he really thought. So he told her everything—how he knew all the stories and how the games and songs were for younger kids.
“I think I understand,” Sister Evans said. “You’ve been in Primary a long time. Sometimes when we do the same things over again, it can seem boring.” Cory nodded. “Well,” Sister Evans said, “I don’t want Primary to be boring. I brought a scripture to share with you. I think it might help.”
Sister Evans opened her scriptures. “This was written by the Apostle Paul,” she said. “See if you can tell what he’s talking about.” Then she read, “‘But now are they many members, yet but one body.
“‘And the eye cannot say unto the hand, I have no need of thee: nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of you. …
“‘Now ye are the body of Christ, and members in particular’” (1 Corinthians 12:20–21, 27).
Cory asked, “When it says ‘members,’ is that like members of the Church?”
“Exactly,” Sister Evans said. “Just like every part of the body is important, every person is needed at church. In Primary, you can be like one of those hands that Paul wrote about—a helping hand.”
“But I don’t teach the lesson or lead the songs,” Cory said.
“But when you answer questions, it helps others learn,” Sister Evans said. “And when you sing your best, the younger children feel more confident.”
“I’ll try,” Cory said. “Maybe you can call me your ‘right-hand man,’” he said, smiling.
On Sunday, Cory felt more excited to go to Primary than he had for a long time. He answered questions, and he tried to sing well so that the younger kids could hear the words.
Later, Sister Evans pointed to a boy in the Sunbeam class who was crying. “Would you mind sitting by Steven today?” Sister Evans asked Cory.
Cory sat next to Steven and helped him sing the songs. When Cory folded his arms for the prayer, Steven did too.
On the way home, Cory felt a little more grown-up. He had always known he was important to Heavenly Father. But now that he was a “right-hand man” in Primary, he knew he was also an important part of Heavenly Father’s Church.

When I was a small girl, only three years old, my brother, sister, and I had a live-in baby-sitter who had a little girl of her own. Because my mother was single, she had to work.
One day, while my brother and sister were at school, I was playing with the baby-sitter’s daughter. I found her sitting on the top bunk of her bunk bed. I knew my mother did not allow me to climb to the top bunk because it was dangerous. But I saw that she was eating goldfish cheese crackers, which I loved. I climbed up, received some crackers, and leaned back against the safety rail. It came unhooked, and I fell to the floor, landing on my rear end. I was shaken but would have been unhurt. However, as I looked up, I saw the rail falling toward me. It hit me on the head, knocking me unconscious.
My mother worked at the hospital, so she raced to the emergency room after she was notified I had been admitted. She found me playing with hand puppets and a nice doctor. He assured my mom that I would be fine.

Illustration by Stan Fellows
I buckled my daughter into the well-worn car seat. Our budget was tight, so I was grateful for the recent hand-me-down. It served as a booster seat since my daughter had outgrown her previous car seat. I looked forward to running errands on that beautiful day.
We pulled into our first stop, the library. As I unstrapped my daughter, I noticed a young Hispanic woman parked next to us. A baby, unable to fully support himself, sat directly on the back seat, hunched into a little ball. The young mother struggled to cinch the seat belt tight enough for his small form. I had two thoughts.
“She doesn’t have a car seat for her baby. I could give her mine.”
And then I talked myself out of it.
“She probably doesn’t speak English. I might offend her. My car seat is awfully worn; maybe she wouldn’t want it. If she did, how would I replace it?”
So I did nothing.
She slipped into the driver’s seat and drove away.
Before I reached the library’s doors, regret engulfed me. I knew I had made the wrong choice, and there was no way to undo it.
I pulled on the doors but they didn’t budge. The library hadn’t opened yet. I spent the rest of my errand run endlessly replaying the scene, haunted by the fact that I had done nothing.
After my last errand, I decided to try the library again. I pulled into the same parking spot as before. To my surprise, I saw the same mother and son parked beside me again. An immense burden lifted from my heart.
This time I acted without hesitation. I unbuckled my child’s car seat and approached the young mother. She didn’t speak English. With gestures, I pointed to her baby and the car seat and her car. Together we buckled the car seat in the car. As I showed her how to use it, I realized I already knew the only Spanish I needed to know: “gracias.”
My heart overflowed with gratitude to a merciful Heavenly Father for giving me a second chance to help a sister in need.
I added one final errand to the list—a nearby thrift store. I buckled in my daughter and drove carefully to the store. In the back corner of the shop, sitting on the floor, was a car seat—identical to the one I had just given away and just as worn. I purchased it, awed and humbled at the morning’s sequence of events.
Through the Savior’s gentle but effective teaching, the lesson had been planted deep into my heart: follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost—the first time.

When my father was a boy, he lived in a small town in central Utah near Utah Lake. In the days before the pioneers, Native Americans hunted and fished in the area. Certain locations around the lake became popular for those looking for arrowheads.
At a fathers-and-sons activity when my father was five years old, his ward went to Utah Lake to look for arrowheads. After the group had spent the day searching, my grandfather asked my father whether he had found any arrowheads.
“No, I didn’t find any,” my father replied. Then he reached into his pocket and said, “But I did find this nice rock that is shaped just like a Christmas tree.”
My father had found an arrowhead after all, but he didn’t know it. He held the real thing in his hand, but he didn’t recognize it.

Brother McConkie tells the story of Reed Smoot, who was the first Latter-day Saint to represent Utah in the United States Senate. During his service he became highly respected by his colleagues and was one of the men selected to help decide who would be nominated as a candidate for president of the United States.
“His party had won the presidency the last several elections, and most observers thought the trend would continue. It was almost conceded that this convention would name the next president of the United States. … During this convention the leaders assembled there said to Senator Smoot, ‘Senator, you may have the nomination if you want it. There is one stipulation: You will have to soft-peddle the fact that you are a Mormon.’ Senator Smoot is reported to have replied, ‘I would rather be a deacon in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints than be president of the United States.’” (P. 33.)

It wasn’t enough for Manila, Philippines, institute students to just learn the word—they wanted to go out and share it. So they put together a musical show, emphasizing the scriptures and education, that was designed to help parents and youth apply gospel principles in their lives.
The students gave up their summer free time to rehearse and perform, but said it was worth it to see the audience reaction—some were touched to tears. The group toured Metro Manila and the nearby provinces with their variety show. “All our efforts have been paid off by the wonderful feelings we’ve had,” said one participant.

During my mission, whenever I felt discouraged or thought I couldn’t go on, I prayed for help. So I knew I could rely on Heavenly Father again to help me adjust to this new life transition.
I got the impression that I needed to serve. Service had always helped me feel like I had a purpose. I went to see my bishop and told him about my desire to serve. He called me to be the Young Women secretary.
A few months later, I told Heavenly Father I wanted to progress and learn more in my life, and I asked for His help. The very next day, I was called as second counselor in the stake Primary presidency.
Being able to serve the young women and the children in Primary really helped me adapt to life after my mission. I was able to focus on helping them turn toward the Savior instead of focusing on my challenges. Over time, adjusting became easier as I strived to serve.