Gospel Story Finder

When he was five and Matt was eight, Marilyn and I took these two aspiring athletes to see BYU play football. Shortly after the game began, a wet snowstorm blew in from the north. I took Devin in my lap and sat on the north. Matt was next and then Marilyn. The one blanket we had brought along didn’t quite cover us. The sleetlike snow continued on and on until we became cold, wet, and uncomfortable. But at the same time BYU was winning, and I could not bear the thoughts of going home. I knew that we would have to if young preschooler Devin ever started to complain.
To keep him happy, I would say things such as, “Watch that man. He will throw the ball to that man.” Or, “Watch that man kick the ball.” Amidst all this I would take out my handkerchief and wipe the water from his head. Then I’d wring the water out of the totally soaked handkerchief and wipe his head again. My tactics succeeded. Devin didn’t get discouraged, and we were able to remain.
Finally the game was nearly over. It was now obvious that BYU would defeat their arch-rivals to the north. Fittingly, at that point the storm ended, and the sun came out.
I could feel Devin stirring in my arms, and I sensed that he wanted to stand on his own legs. I undid my hold on him, and he moved away and stood on the empty seat just below our row. After he had stretched and looked around, he turned and faced me. Our eyes met, and his expression became very thoughtful. He then spoke: “Dad, you do so much for me. Isn’t there something that I can do for you?”
Emotion swelled within me as these sincere words entered my heart. Somehow it was hard for me to respond, but I was able to softly say, “Yes, there is something that you can do for me.”
His five-year-old eyes seemed much older as he asked, “What can I do?”
I put my hands on his shoulders and, looking deep into his eyes, replied, “Just be my son. Just be my son.” Somehow he seemed to understand. I pulled him close to me, and joy filled my soul. I knew then as I’ve known so many times that Devin was a winner in the ways that really matter.

I would like to share a few personal experiences from our lives as we have felt and seen and personally witnessed the unmistakable power and love of our living Father in Heaven.
We have known many great and noble spirits here in this special place. Our faith and testimonies have been forever strengthened by what we have witnessed in the lives of so many faithful servants of our Father. In my work in medicine, I have felt on countless occasions His healing power step in where my professional knowledge and skill had reached their limit. I have witnessed miraculous healings. Some who had crossed the veil came back and told me of their experiences being on both sides. I have seen the hand of our Father reach out to His children and felt His thoughts and words flow through my mind and my mouth to express His love for them. I have felt impressions come to my mind to look for something or think of something that I would not have otherwise done without His influence and His love for each individual. I have also seen many times when healing did not occur and witnessed the pain and heartache of loss. It is often difficult to understand or explain when it seems that prayers are not being answered in the way that we want. These are truly the times when our “hearts” are tested and tried. Do we really trust Him and put ourselves in His hands and say, “Thy will be done.” We had some dear friends who lost a young son in a flash flood while he was on his first overnight camp with the Boy Scouts. He and our son were walking together and both were swept into the flood waters together. How do you explain why one is taken to the other side of the veil, and the other one, our son, remains here? It is in these times, however, that we feel His comforting reassurance that eternity truly is our “rock and our salvation”, that the promises given by The Lord in D&C 121-122 are literally true, and that He understands.

To say I was overwhelmed when President Hinckley called me to serve as Relief Society general president is a huge understatement! Can’t you relate? But, voice trembling, I responded, “Here am I; send me.” After a Jewish friend learned what my calling entailed, she looked at me like I was crazy and asked, “Bonnie, why would you do that?” (At times like these, I often ask myself the same thing!) But there is only one reason I did it: I have made covenants with the Lord, and I know what that requires. Plus, I knew that you and I would serve together and that my willingness was on behalf of all of us.
For centuries, righteous women have been stepping forward to join the cause of Christ. Many of you have only recently been baptized; your covenants are fresh in your hearts, your sacrifices still tender. As I think about you, I am reminded of Priscilla Staines from Wiltshire, England. Nineteen-year-old Priscilla joined the Church in 1843. Alone. She had to steal away in the night to be baptized, because of the persecutions of her neighbors and the displeasure of her family. She wrote: “We waited until midnight … and then repaired to a stream of water a quarter of a mile away. Here we found the water … frozen over, and the elder had to chop a hole in the ice large enough for the purpose of baptism. … None but God and his angels, and the few witnesses who stood on the bank with us, heard my covenant; but in the solemnity of that midnight hour it seemed as though all nature were listening, and the recording angel writing our words in the book of the Lord.”
Her words “None but God and his angels … heard my covenant” touch my soul, for like Priscilla—no matter our age, our gospel knowledge, our time in the Church—we are all women of covenant. That is a phrase we often hear in the Church, but what does it mean? How do covenants define who we are and how we live?
Covenants—or binding promises between us and Heavenly Father—are essential for our eternal progression. Step-by-step, He tutors us to become like Him by enlisting us in His work. At baptism we covenant to love Him with all our hearts and love our sisters and brothers as ourselves. In the temple we further covenant to be obedient, selfless, faithful, honorable, charitable. We covenant to make sacrifices and consecrate all that we have. Forged through priesthood authority, our kept covenants bring blessings to fill our cups to overflowing. How often do you reflect that your covenants reach beyond mortality and connect you to the Divine? Making covenants is the expression of a willing heart; keeping covenants, the expression of a faithful heart.
Sounds so simple on paper, doesn’t it? Of course, the doing is where we prove who we really are. Thus, every time we reach out with love, patience, kindness, generosity, we honor our covenants by saying, “Here am I; send me.” Usually we speak these words softly, unaccompanied by brass bands.
When have someone else’s covenants with the Lord blessed your life, brought you peace, nurtured your soul? When my husband and I were missionaries in England, we saw many elders and sisters whose lives were directly influenced by the covenants of worthy women. I was so thankful for mothers, sisters, aunts, teachers—like so many of you—whose honored covenants extended blessings to others by the way they taught those future missionaries.
Covenants not only coax us out of comfort zones and into new growth but lead others to do the same. Jesus said, “The works which ye have seen me do that shall ye also do.” His covenant keeping encourages ours.
Covenants save us from needless suffering. For example, when we obey the prophet’s guidance, we are keeping a covenant. He has counseled us to avoid debt, maintain a food supply, and become self-reliant. Living within our means blesses us beyond that obedience. It teaches us gratitude, restraint, unselfishness; it brings peace from financial pressures and protection from materialism’s greed. Keeping our lamps filled means that unforeseen circumstances do not hinder opportunities to declare with devotion, “Here am I; send me.”
Covenants renewed invigorate and refresh a weary soul. Each Sunday when we partake of the sacrament, what happens in our hearts when we hear those words to “always remember him”? Do we improve the following week by refocusing on what matters most? Yes, we face hard things; yes, making changes is strenuous. But have you ever wondered how our sisters survived being driven from Nauvoo, many walking the entire trek? When their feet were tired, they were carried by their covenants! What else could grant such spiritual and physical fortitude?
Covenants also protect us from being “tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness.” Women of covenant stand firm when evil is called good and good is called evil. Whether it be in the college classroom, around the water cooler, or watching TV’s latest “experts,” remembering our covenants keeps us from being led astray.
Covenants can keep us and those we love spiritually safe and spiritually prepared by putting first things first. For instance, when it comes to families, we cannot afford indifference and distraction. Childhood is a vanishing wonder; so few have had the sunny days I knew growing up on a farm. President Hinckley has said: “Our problems, almost every one, arise out of the homes of the people. … If there is to be a change, … it must begin in the home. It is here that truth is learned, that integrity is cultivated, that self-discipline is instilled, and that love is nurtured.”
Sisters, the Lord needs women who will teach children to work and learn and serve and believe. Whether they are our own or another’s, we must stand up and state, “Here am I; send me to watch over your little ones, to put them first, to guide and protect them from evil, to love them.”
Sometimes we are faced with keeping our covenants when there seems to be no logical reason to do so. I listened to a single sister tell of her experience of “coming to trust the Lord completely.” Her life had not worked out as she had expected. Sound familiar? This period of soul-searching was marked by changing jobs, new financial pressures, tugs from worldly philosophies. Now listen to what she did. She sat down with other sisters in her ward and found that they too were searching to find the peace the gospel brings. She asked for a priesthood blessing. She valiantly carried forward in her calling. She studied and tried to more fully commit her love, appreciation, and conviction to Jesus. She prayed. “I cried to the Lord,” she said, “and told Him I would do whatever He would ask of me.” She did all this despite those difficulties. And do you know what happened? No, her eternal companion did not appear on her doorstep. But peace made its way into her heart, and life got better.
Sisters, we keep our covenants when we share our life’s wisdom to encourage another, when we visit teach with genuine compassion, when we help a younger sister know that her fresh perspective will bless us in Relief Society. We can do that!
When young Priscilla, our British convert of 1843, crossed the Atlantic, she was befriended by a woman the age of her mother. This older sister also felt the fire of covenants she had made. When they docked at the wharf in Nauvoo, she was by Priscilla’s side. Together, bold and believing, they joined with the Saints of God.
The spiritual integrity to keep our covenants comes from consistency in scripture study, prayer, service, and sacrifice. Such simple steps nurture our souls so we can say, “Send me to help a sister and her newborn; send me to tutor a struggling student; send me to love an outsider. Send me where you need me, when you need me.”
The Lord has called us to do all that we do with “holiness of heart.” And holiness is a product of covenant living. I love the words of this hymn and the way they make me feel:
More holiness give me,
More strivings within,
More patience in suff’ring,
More sorrow for sin,
More faith in my Savior,
More sense of his care,
More joy in his service,
More purpose in prayer.
Holiness prompts the words “Here am I; send me.” When Priscilla Staines made her midnight covenant in those icy waters, she stepped forward into a new life, clothes nearly frozen yet heart warmed with joy. “There was no turning back,” she said. “I … set out for the reward of everlasting life, trusting in God.”
President Hinckley, with the Relief Society sisters around the world, I commit to you that we stand united as women of covenant and hearken to your voice. In a host of different languages, hear the words of each Relief Society sister as we say, “Here am I; send me.”
May our individual covenants that bind us to our loving Heavenly Father guide us, protect us, sanctify us, and allow us to do likewise for all His children, I so pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Two decades have now passed since we joined the Church, and we have been blessed in many ways. Two more children were born into our family. The year 1996 was especially wonderful. Luciano went on a mission to Italy, and our eldest grandson was baptized. And if that was not enough, Heavenly Father touched my husband’s heart concerning the Church. In December 1999 our family was sealed in the Sydney Australia Temple.

When the 23-year-old Heber J. Grant was installed as president of the Tooele Stake, he told the Saints he believed the gospel was true. President Joseph F. Smith, a counselor in the First Presidency, inquired, “Heber, you said you believe the gospel with all your heart, … but you did not bear your testimony that you know it is true. Don’t you know absolutely that this gospel is true?”
Heber answered, “I do not.” Joseph F. Smith then turned to John Taylor, the President of the Church, and said, “I am in favor of undoing this afternoon what we did this morning. I do not think any man should preside over a stake who has not a perfect and abiding knowledge of the divinity of this work.”
President Taylor replied, “Joseph, Joseph, Joseph, [Heber] knows it just as well as you do. The only thing that he does not know is that he does know it.”
Within a few weeks that testimony was realized, and young Heber J. Grant shed tears of gratitude for the perfect, abiding, and absolute testimony that came into his life.1

September 23, 1846—on the western bank of the Mississippi RiverTremendous thundershower today. The rain came down in torrents, drenching everything. We have only a tent to shelter us. We left Nauvoo in haste a few days ago. Our carefully packed belongings were scattered by the mobs looking for firearms. We have little left. It was not hard to leave the deserted city, but it breaks my heart to see our beloved temple just across the river—so near, yet unreachable. Papa is still grieving. As Brother Joseph’s bodyguard, he feels he should have somehow prevented the martyrdom. If he would just make music again on his fife, I am sure my heart would not be so heavy.

Several months ago I was in Monroe, Louisiana, attending a regional conference. It was a beautiful occasion. At the airport on my way home, I was approached by a lovely black member of the Church who said, smiling broadly, “President Monson, before I joined the Church and became a member of Relief Society, I could not read nor write. None of my family could. You see, we were all poor sharecroppers. President, my white Relief Society sisters—they taught me to read. They taught me to write. Now I help teach my white sisters how to read and how to write.” I reflected on the supreme joy she must have felt when she opened her Bible and read for the first time the words of the Lord:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matt. 11:28–30.)
That day in Monroe, Louisiana, I received a confirmation by the Spirit of your exalted objective.

I was about nine years old when two foreign missionaries first visited my family in the Philippines. I was impressed with their grooming and friendliness, but I couldn’t understand a word they said. They taught in English, and only Mama and Papa understood them, because both were schoolteachers.
I still recall the day Mama threw down the Book of Mormon and refused to read any more. She had heard some lies about the Church and was upset that Papa was allowing the missionaries to teach us.
Papa just picked up the book and calmly said, “Open your heart and listen to the teachings. This book is true. Read this, and you’ll know it is true.”
I don’t know exactly what happened, but six months later I was surprised when Mama announced we were going to be baptized. I knew little of the Church, and I didn’t want another baptism. But I couldn’t resist my parents’ will, so I was baptized.
Joseph Smith, however, remained a big concern. I couldn’t believe he was a prophet of God, and every time someone taught about him I wanted to shout, “That’s not true!” But I couldn’t utter it. When I was asked to share my testimony, I repeated words I had heard others speak.
Though I did not believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, I did believe some of the Church’s teachings and enjoyed attending church—except for the first Sunday of the month. Over and over I would hear the members bearing testimony that Joseph Smith was a prophet. It irritated me. I eventually became so angry that I didn’t want to attend church. I made up excuses not to attend, but Papa wouldn’t allow any of his children to be left at home on Sundays.
I was about 14 years old when Papa enrolled me in seminary. That really bothered me. I wasn’t interested, and I felt forced to attend. The first meeting, I purposely arrived late. But to my surprise, no one was at the chapel except Brother Cedillo, the custodian. He turned out to be my seminary teacher.
When the other students arrived, Brother Cedillo asked if any of us had read the Book of Mormon. Nobody answered. He opened the book and asked us to read with him, beginning at 1 Nephi 1:1. I do not remember what else my teacher said that day, but I do remember the powerful testimony he bore of the Book of Mormon. I was touched in my heart, and as I walked home I felt happy. I couldn’t understand why.
That night I resolved to read the Book of Mormon. I started reading after dinner, with a prayer that I could understand. I kept reading till midnight. As I read, I imagined the characters in the Book of Mormon acting out the scenes as if I were watching television. I didn’t understand some of the words, but as I read of the sufferings the prophets in the Book of Mormon endured for testifying of the truth, tears rolled down my cheeks. I had been angry at members of the Church for doing the same thing the prophets had done! I pictured myself as one of those who had persecuted the prophets—and realized how ungrateful I had been.
I continued reading the next day and into the night. I couldn’t sleep until I finished reading the Book of Mormon. When I finally closed the book, I knelt and asked God for forgiveness. In my prayer, I testified that I knew the Book of Mormon was true. And I knew that if the Book of Mormon was true, then Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, because he translated the book. As I said “amen,” my face was wet with tears. I felt at peace and filled with joy.
The experience helped me later when I served a full-time mission in the Philippines Cebu Mission. It helped me understand better my investigators’ concerns about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. Today my heart still fills with gratitude for the great blessings God has given me and my family.

Rosemary Curtis Neider recalls a time, towards the end of a busy month, when her visiting teaching wasn’t done. She was tempted to just make telephone calls, but was prompted to make the visits instead. Sitting in the home of one less-active sister, Sister Neider was impressed to read to her about the visit of the Savior to the Nephites. “She concentrated longer than I had ever expected,” Sister Neider said, “and she kept saying, ‘Here, now, put a piece of paper in that page so I can find it again later. Oh, put one there, too.’

“What can I say? I felt the Spirit strongly in her home, and my complex, hurried schedule didn’t matter anymore. I felt gratitude and an increase of strength for many days afterward” (in To Rejoice As Women: Talks from the 1994 Women’s Conference, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1995, pages 67–68).

When I was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes, it was very hard for me. I had to prick my finger every two hours and get a lot of shots from my mom every day. Sometimes it hurt.
Then last year my mom and I decided to start looking for the good side of having diabetes. First, I have made new friends who also have diabetes. They help me a lot. I can help others who have diabetes by babysitting for their families or by talking and listening.
My brothers have also been blessed by learning to have patience and to be loving when I don’t feel well. The school nurse is my friend, and I’ve been blessed with Primary teachers who understand and help me. In our family we hug and support each other more.
The blessings of diabetes are all around me. I am thankful that my parents teach me to seek and find these special blessings. I know my Heavenly Father always blesses me and always will.Heidi Millett, age 8, and her mom, Queen Creek, Arizona

When we organized a genealogy class, particularly for a group of nonmembers in town who were doing genealogy as a hobby, we asked Heavenly Father for help in finding a teacher. He sent us another family; the wife was a genealogy expert. She agreed to teach the class every Tuesday night. She was also an excellent pianist and an expert in arts and crafts, which was a big asset to the branch. Her husband became the Sunday School president, and we had another child for Primary.

On my street lives a little boy known as the Sidewalk King. This little boy cruises the neighborhood on his black and gold plastic racing tricycle, living in his own world of make-believe and heroic deeds. One of his favorite things to do is to back that little vehicle up against his house and then—gathering up all the power and energy at his command—shoot dangerously out onto the street. Then, pulling handlebars around hard, he pedals back again. Nearby neighbors can’t help but hear him.
His parents, understanding more than he does about the dangers involved, have warned him and pleaded with him. Not long ago, his father found it necessary to give his young son a strong chastising to help him understand how dangerous it is to ride out in the street. As he ran into the house he sobbed to his parents, “You just want to ruin all my fun.”
To the mind of a four-year-old, that is exactly what it appeared. But, oh, how wrong he was. His parents weren’t trying to ruin his fun; they were trying to keep him from harm, perhaps even death. Freedom to him was largely doing what he wanted without restraint and interference.
I know of another little boy who came home from school one day long ago to find a rented piano in the house. “What’s this piano here for?” he asked his mother.
“It’s for you,” she replied.
“For me?” he asked. “Why for me?”
“Because,” she said, “you are going to take piano lessons.”
He said he didn’t want to take piano lessons. But she had already arranged for a teacher.
Well, this little boy began to miss a few lessons. One day his mother asked, “How was your piano lesson?”
He said, “Fine. I’m doing pretty well.”
“That’s interesting,” she said. “I just talked to your teacher, and she hasn’t seen you for a while.” He had been caught. He didn’t know what the punishment would be, but he knew it would be bad. Then his mother said, “Just for that, you may not take piano lessons.”
He tried to look punished, but inside he was very happy with her decision. Mother, he thought, you have hit on the perfect punishment. I hope you use it often. Within his heart he felt that he had just been liberated. He was free from practice, free from lessons, free from discipline, routine, and regimentation—free from all that seemed to limit his freedom.
When he grew to be a man, he was sitting one day in a church meeting during which a woman was to sing a solo. When her time to perform came, she walked up to the podium and announced, “My accompanist could not come today. I need someone to accompany me.” Looking over the congregation, she saw a man who used to teach piano. “Will you accompany me?” she asked him. The man came forward, and she handed him the music.
As he watched this happen, my friend who had avoided music lessons thought, What would I have done if she had asked me? If she had asked me, I would have been free to do only one thing: to say no. Suddenly, he realized that what he had assumed to be one of the great liberating moments of his life—when his mother said, “You may not take lessons any more”—was in fact a moment of bondage, not freedom. As he sat in that church meeting, he might as well have been handcuffed, for he could not have played the piano if he had wanted to. The other man was free; he could choose to play or not to play. Ultimately, then, freedom is more a matter of capacity and ability than of permission.
Too often, we believe the myth that we are free to do whatever we want to do. True, most of us are free to develop any ability or skill we choose; but until we develop them, we remain in bondage to our own lack of capacity. Even in lands of great political freedom, I fear that many of us live in bondage. Misunderstanding the principle of freedom, we lead lives of limited capacity and, thus, diminished choice. We tell ourselves that the only mason we are not doing certain positive, productive things is that we don’t want to. If we don’t play the piano, for example, we like to think it’s because we don’t want to. Actually, we don’t play because we are not free to. Remember, if we are only free to choose one thing—that is, not to play—we are not really free.

Prior to my introduction to the restored gospel, I spent much of my time playing soccer, including games on the Sabbath day. Even though I had been brought up to have respect for the Lord’s day, it was through applying the principle after I came in contact with the Church that I gained an understanding of the doctrine and its blessings. Withdrawing from the Sunday league team was one of the significant sacrifices that led to my conversion. It helped me appreciate the value of the gospel in my life.
Three years later, when work commenced on building the Norwich chapel, I also withdrew from the Saturday league team so that I could make my contribution to the building project. The mist of self-interest that had previously restricted my vision was beginning to disperse, and a new panoramic view was emerging, bringing with it a deeper appreciation for and an increasing love of life.

President Kimball told the story about being in the hospital after one of his operations. He was lying on a gurney that was being wheeled onto an elevator. The floor of the elevator was not flush with the corridor floor, and as the cart moved into the elevator, there was a big bump. President Kimball, just coming out of the anesthetic, heard the orderly take the Lord’s name in vain. This great man said to the orderly, “Oh! Don’t say that! He is my best friend.” The young man apologized and promised to never do it again.

The fourth question: “Some of our closest friends are not totally committed to the Church. The fellows don’t honor their priesthood, and the girls are only conveniently active. We like them for what they are. We don’t want to strain our choice relationships. Talk seems to do no good at all. What shall we do then?”

In answer to this question, shortly before Christmas we had the opportunity of going to the hospital at the request of a mother whose fifty-five-year-old son was seriously ill. As we met with them and tried to give them comfort, the fifty-five-year-old patient’s nephew was in the hospital room as well. The afflicted one’s wife said, “Elder Ashton, would it be possible for you to give my husband a blessing?” I nodded approval and looked in the direction of the thirty-year-old nephew and said, “Are you an elder?”

He said, “Yes, I am an elder, but don’t ask me to put my hands on his head. I am not worthy to participate in a blessing with you.”

As he backed away, I said, “Roland, how would you like to try to be worthy for ten minutes? Couldn’t you be worthy for a few minutes while you help me give this needed blessing?”

He nodded his head and said, “I think I can be worthy for a few minutes.”

While he was walking close to the side of the bed, I said, “If you can do it for ten minutes, you can do it for thirty minutes.”

He said, “Yes.”

I said, “If you can do it for thirty minutes, you can do it for a day, can’t you?” About then I felt he figured we had better get on with the blessing or he would be committed. We gave his uncle a blessing, and when it was over he said, “Thank you for letting me share this blessing with you. No one has ever put it up to me like this before. I will try to be worthy.”

I leave you that story in answer to this question. Perhaps, my friends, the best way to help some of our associates who are not quite as active as they should be is to involve them. I don’t know of anything that would be more important and have more impact upon an inactive person than to have you call and say, “Would you help me to administer to my wife, my roommate, or my friend?” Give him an opportunity to make shaping up a process.

I went through a period when I had been involved in some bad things that I knew required a confession to the bishop. I was very fearful of going through with what I knew was right. Instead of just confessing, I quit going to church because I didn’t feel comfortable there. I quit praying because I felt unworthy. I got involved in other more serious activities that would also require a confession.

Please believe that no matter what you have done, no matter how scared you are of going to the bishop, living with it by yourself is a lot worse than confessing. My bishop told me that nothing could make my Heavenly Father change the way he feels about me. No matter how terrible the act, he will always love the person.

Actions taken by the bishop are for your benefit. Being asked to not partake of the sacrament or go through a period of probation might seem harsh, but it will be most beneficial to you if you accept it as something that will be helpful.

Please don’t live with your secret alone. Go talk to the bishop. He is your friend. The feeling you will get from knowing that you have done the right thing is wonderful. Your bishop will not change his love for you. And more importantly, Heavenly Father will never stop loving you. Please don’t let fear rule your life. I know it is a big step, but if I can come back from the terrible things I was involved with and feel the love of Heavenly Father and my bishop and my family, and myself, you too can feel good again. Please make a call, set an appointment, and go through with it.

Name withheld

“When President Russell M. Nelson announced the temple for Puerto Rico, I was alone in my room, watching General Conference, and the emotion was so great that I cried, I thanked Heavenly Father for answering my forty-year prayer.” expresses María del Carmen Carrasco Caraballo, from the Ponce 1st Ward, Ponce Puerto Rico Stake.

Although due to the COVID-19 pandemic the work was stopped in March 2020, they felt confident that everything would be resolved. “I clung, with all my heart, to the knowledge that God’s timing is perfect, and I felt peace,” says Sister Carrasco Caraballo, happy that the work was resumed in May of that same year.

Sister María del Carmen Carrasco, from the Ponce Puerto Rico Stake, along with a group of her from her Ponce 1st Ward, are preparing in the Santo Domingo Temple and have been set apart to serve as ordinance workers in the temple in her country.

“After forty years of waiting for this great blessing, our sights are on the temple and the ordinances that are performed there. Our goal is to be able to serve in the Puerto Rico Temple,” she says.

While the temple is being built, this sister has focused on teaching Primary children the importance of family history and temple work for a Latter-day Saint. On the other hand, she has increased the search for data to strengthen her family history and strives every day to stay worthy to enter the House of the Lord.

“This is far enough, Mom. You can drop me off here,” Jill said to her mother as they pulled up to the gates of Cannondale Heights. “I’ll just walk the rest of the way. I need the exercise.”
“Sorry I couldn’t have Jeeves bring you ’round in the limo,” Jill’s mother said in her best Harvard accent. “But he had to take your father to the airport to catch the Concorde for the summit meeting.”
Jill hadn’t fooled her mother for a second. She never could. It was all too obvious that she didn’t want to be seen pulling up to Courtney Pennington’s palatial mansion in the family’s clunky old blue-or-grey-or-whatever-color-it-used-to-be Impala. Jill was five-foot-eight and not just thin; she was skinny. She ate all the time to gain weight, and now she was telling her mother she needed to walk for exercise on a cold, dark night? She felt guilty about the pretense, so she leaned over and gave her mom an extra big hug, momentarily catching her thick brown hair on the button of her mother’s jacket.
“Have a good time,” her mother said with a smile as Jill jumped out of “Sherman.” That was the affectionate nickname the family had given the car because of its resemblance to a tank.
The night was chilly and as Jill began walking up the hill to the Pennington’s driveway, she wished she would have stayed a little longer in her mother’s soft, warm, cinnamon-smelling embrace.
The huge wrought-iron gate that guarded what looked like a very long lane automatically swung open as soon as Jill neared it. She looked around before entering and noticed she’d crossed through an electric beam that must have alerted whoever was looking at her through a small T.V. camera mounted on the gatepost. “I can’t believe this,” she said to herself. “The Pennington place is unreal!”
Jill thought about the situation as she continued through the gate and up the long, tree-lined drive. Courtney Pennington was the new girl in the ward. She was in Jill’s Mia Maid class but hadn’t immediately drawn a lot of attention because she was quiet—the nice kind of quiet, where you know she’s shy rather than stuck-up. She had long blond hair that was probably curly or wavy, but she kept it pulled back in a braid or a ponytail all the time so it was hard to tell. She dressed well but not flashy, and no one even realized she was rich until one day they saw her hop into a very large, very shiny Mercedes that had come for her after church. The windows were tinted, so no one could see the driver.
Courtney became a sort of enigma after that. No one wanted to be rude and ask too many questions, but everyone in the class was curious about her. They hadn’t ever seen the rest of her family, although one day she showed them a picture she carried in her wallet. The miniportrait revealed one of the best looking brothers they’d ever seen, and two incredibly handsome parents.
The girls just about fell over when she gave their adviser a home address that had to be located in prestigious Cannondale Heights.
They were ecstatic when Courtney offered to host the Mia Maid class party they were planning. Most of them had never even driven through Cannondale Heights, let alone visited one of the elaborate estates there. They couldn’t wait to see what life was like in the lap of luxury.
Courtney, whom Jill had befriended the very first day by offering her half of the candy bar she usually carried in her purse, had asked Jill to come by, see her home, and help plan the party from there. Jill had jumped at the chance.
And now she was standing in front of the Pennington’s massive brass door. What if a butler answers? she wondered. What would you say to a butler? “Good evening. I have come to visit with Miss Courtney. She is expecting me.” Could she say that with a straight face? How about, “Yo! Butle me in!” Or “Beam me up, butler!” The possibilities were endless. She couldn’t help but giggle.
She was relieved when Courtney opened the door just as Jill was reaching for the carved ivory knocker. “I’m so glad you’re here! You’re just in time,” Courtney bubbled, surprising Jill with her enthusiasm. “My parents are on their way out, and I want them to meet you before they go.”
“She wants them to meet me?” Jill thought as Courtney led her through a marble-floored entry and down a wood-paneled hall. She’d heard that Courtney’s father was a very powerful movie executive, and she was sure he met famous movie stars every day. Why would he want to meet some insignificant, skinny kid from the ward?
Courtney opened the door to a room that seemed to be all glass and garden. There were huge bouquets of fresh flowers blooming everywhere. On the other side of the room stood Courtney’s parents, silhouetted against a giant window through which city lights sparkled below.
“You must be Jill,” said a dazzling blond lady, all dressed in gold and black velvet. Could that be Courtney’s mom? Nobody’s mom dressed like that! Most moms Jill knew dressed in sweats or jeans, except on Sundays when they pulled out their flowered dresses.
“Of course that’s Jill,” Courtney’s father answered before Jill could say anything. “It’s so good to get to know Courtney’s friends. C’mon babe, we’ve got to get going—they won’t hold the premiere—not even for me!” he said as he began striding toward the door. He was the only man Jill had ever met who you could actually say “strode.” The tall man in the tuxedo gave the impression that he would never merely walk.
Courtney reached out to give her mother a hug, but only caught her hand as she hurried out behind her husband. “Watch the nails, hon,” Mrs. Pennington said as she quickly drew away. “Monique just did them today. Have a good time.” And they were gone. All that remained was the spicy scent of Mrs. Pennington’s expensive perfume.
“Well, those are my parents,” Courtney said, almost apologetically. “They’re always off somewhere. I wish it was off to church sometimes, but you’ve probably noticed they’re not big on attendance. They haven’t been for a long time.”
“I wasn’t sure if they were members or not,” Jill responded honestly. Then she quickly added, “It’s good they are.”
“Well, I guess you can say they’re members,” Courtney continued. “Dad joined the Church so Mom would marry him, but he never really got into it. Mom’s not into it much anymore either, but at least they’re nice about letting me go.”
“That’s not bad,” Jill said philosophically. She was beginning to wonder about the girl with the beautiful house and glamorous parents. “My parents have to wrestle with us half the time to get us to church. I think it’s good you try so hard to come on your own. I don’t see how you do it.”
“I don’t see how I can’t,” Courtney responded, a small smile crossing her face. “A long time ago I realized that I felt things at church I couldn’t feel anywhere else. The things they taught me there I couldn’t learn anywhere else, and I’ve been a lot of places. Now that I’m older and understand a little more about how the Spirit works, I don’t want to do anything that would separate me from it—like not going to church. I need all the spiritual help I can get. I don’t have a family like yours to teach me and help me learn. I envy you that.”
“Courtney envies me?” Jill thought. “That’s really funny.” And the humor in it grew as Courtney took her from room to room, showing her possible places for the party. The house was amazing. The Persian rugs and rich polished floors were such a contrast to the matted shag and scuffed linoleum in Jill’s house. There were about ten bedrooms—more than half of them guest rooms. They were so different from the bedrooms at Jill’s, where three bedrooms accommodated a family of nine. Two of the rooms were shared by three kids each. And Jill’s older brother Matt slept on the sofa bed in the living room, tormenting the littler kids by tickling them when they crossed through the room to the kitchen at night to get a drink. Oh, and then there were the Pennington’s “recreation rooms.”
“How about if we go swimming in the indoor pool?” Jill suggested when they’d returned to the glass-and-flower room to do the actual planning.
“I thought about that, but Dad said the insurance risk was too high to have a bunch of kids whose parents we don’t know swimming there,” Courtney answered.
“No problem then. Maybe we can get a film and watch it in that neat theater?”
“I don’t think dad would want us fooling with his equipment,” Courtney said.
“That’s all right.” Jill tried again. “I noticed you have a huge kitchen. Maybe we could make some goodies in there. Everybody likes food—especially me. And we could make enough to take to the homeless in the park the next day.
“I think Mom would have a heart attack if we tarnished her copper kitchen stuff,” Courtney said. At this point, she was getting embarrassed.
“Well, we can always just come over and talk girl talk right here,” Jill said, not wanting to disappoint Courtney anymore.
“We can always just come over and talk girl talk!” screeched a Munchkin-like voice that pierced them from every direction. It startled Jill so badly she thought she jumped ten feet in the air. Suddenly, from a slit in the ceiling above a huge white and gold fireplace, a movie screen started descending. When it stopped, a video of their little planning session, played at double speed backwards, started flashing across the screen, their voices screeching in those weird Munchkin tones.
“Selwyn, you dog!” Courtney yelled as she jumped up and ran across the room to a control panel that was neatly concealed behind a tapestry on the wall. She hurriedly flicked a switch that killed the sound.
“It’s my stupid big brother,” Courtney stuttered on the verge of tears. “He takes his video camera everywhere, and he films everything. Then he edits them in weird ways and shows them to everybody. He makes me so mad!”
The girls stood there motionless for a few minutes, watching their images flicker bizarrely across the silent screen.
“Hey—I’ve got a great idea!” Jill said, regaining her composure. “This is a beautiful place, but you’d probably like to get out once in a while. You’ve never been to any of our houses. Why don’t we have the Mia Maid party at mine? Mom will help us make cinnamon rolls. Oh, and Matt has a priests quorum activity that night, so we won’t have competition for the living room. As a matter of fact, I bet Matt would take Selwyn with him, if he wants to go.”
“He’d probably like that,” Courtney said slowly. “He doesn’t have many friends. But do you think your mom would mind?”
“My mom mind? Are you kidding? She loves having people in the house—all over the house,” Jill said, walking over to the golden phone she’d noticed on a desk against the wall. “I’ll call her right now, and we can make plans over there. What’s the exact address of this place so I can have her come right up to the front door and get us?”

In California, USA, Lori Larson had her March Ensign with her at the beauty salon and was enthralled with it. She kept thinking of how the articles would be great to share with someone of another faith and how they would clear up misconceptions about the Church. Then her beautician asked about the magazine she was reading. By the time the appointment and the conversation were over, the beautician was asking for the missionaries to visit her.

When he was eight years old, President Thomas S. Monson decided to have a campfire with his friend Danny. There was just one problem—the field they wanted to use was dry, prickly, and full of weeds. It was then that young President Monson had an idea: “I said to Danny, ‘All we need is to set these weeds on fire. We’ll just burn a circle in the weeds!’ He readily agreed, and I ran to our cabin to get a few matches. …

“… I recall thinking that the fire would burn only as far as we wanted and then would somehow magically extinguish itself.

“I struck a match on a rock and set the parched June grass ablaze.” Soon realizing the fire would not go out on its own, the boys ran for help, and the blaze was put out after several hours of work.

“Danny and I learned several difficult but important lessons that day,” said President Monson, “not the least of which was the importance of obedience.”3