Gospel Story Finder

Tiffany Roy, of the Port Charlotte Ward in Florida, had an experience in which she was true to the teachings of the Church even though it was uncomfortable.

“I had just moved to another state and started school. There was a group of girls who found out that I was Mormon and started asking me all these questions. When they found out that I would not swear, this little group of girls blocked me from going inside the classroom. They told me that they would not let me go in until I would swear. I told them that we would be sitting there all day because I would not lower my standards for them. The girls let me go inside because they knew I wouldn’t do it. They avoided me the rest of the year. I did not care what they thought of me. I stood true to my faith by doing this.”

One day in November of 1978 I taught the first missionary discussion to a bright young man who seemed to have many questions about God and religion. As my companion and I sat down with him to discuss such matters, he stated: "I can only believe in a god that is just like me-imperfect and fallible. Any other conception of a god is unacceptable to me." Today, almost 30 years later, a growing number of theologians and other biblical scholars have been actively trying to discredit scriptural texts, and by employing deconstructionism, they try to reduce the Savior to the level of a mere controversial social reformer, with less-than-divine powers and roles.

Team sports for girls are often criticized because of the feelings of rivalry between teams and the harsh attitudes that sometimes develop. Mechelle recognizes this and has learned to cope with it: “Some girls do get ‘tough’—there is a lot of strain and tension. But our basketball team, which is all LDS, tries to keep its cool. Once there was an awful lot of tension in a game, and we all felt it. Afterwards, I said, ‘Hey, you guys, let’s go talk to them.’ Now we’re really good friends with that team.”

As believers, we have great need for courage in these times, even in our experiences with ministering. John (names have been changed) was assigned to minister to Peter, a member who had never attended ward meetings. John was apprehensive about approaching Peter, since he hadn’t met him and didn’t know his story. But remembering the counsel to “love, share, and invite,” John prayed for guidance and then set out to first become sincere friends with Peter. He spent time getting to know Peter, with frequent visits, phone calls, and an occasional outing for breakfast. John grew to know Peter well, and Peter gained trust in their friendship. When he needed help, it was natural for him to reach out to John, who gladly responded.
One day, John felt impressed that perhaps Peter was ready for an invitation to come back to church. During one of their visits, he brought up the idea in a natural way. Peter paused. “I haven’t been to church in 17 years,” he said. “But you know, I think I will.” When Peter arrived at the ward, John was there to welcome him and sit with him. John felt grateful he was able to get over his initial fear. Through these efforts, both men gained a true friendship that blessed their lives.

As a new missionary, I stayed in the Salt Lake Mission Home prior to going to Ireland. One night, the elders in my room talked of their reasons for serving missions. One elder said he almost didn’t come on his mission because he couldn’t bear to leave his car—the most important thing in his life. Then one day he smelled smoke and rushed to his garage, only to see the car’s engine on fire. The loss prompted him to evaluate his priorities.

One time in gym class we were about to start the social dance unit. Someone asked the teacher whether or not we needed to bring gym clothes for this unit. She answered, “No, you don’t. But don’t wear shoulderless shirts to gym. I realize that they’re currently in style, but it’ll make the boys feel uncomfortable because it doesn’t cover very much. The more the shirts cover, the more comfortable the boys will be.”
At this, little conversations broke out among the class members: “If that’s the case, then I’ll wear a long-sleeved shirt” and “I won’t wear one of those for sure.” Being a member of the Church, I knew that shoulderless shirts weren’t modest. I’d never worn one, so it wasn’t asking a lot of me, but it’d be harder for others. Yet at the next gym class, not a single girl wore that style of shirt. A week later I still didn’t see anyone from that class wearing a shoulderless shirt to school, even on the days we didn’t have gym.
It seems that they all got an important message about modesty that day. It was neat to hear the importance of modesty discussed in a positive way in a non-Church setting, which strengthened my testimony of what I’d already been taught and accepted. The answer my teacher gave, though simply stated, changed the way a lot of the class dresses and thinks now: if it’s too immodest for social dance, then it is and will always be immodest for anything else. So why wear it?

The snow lay in a thick blanket all around our small farmhouse. Inside, the warm, cheery lights were a sharp contrast to the cold dreariness outside. It was the first Christmas Eve that our family had spent together in the last five years. My oldest brother had been away at college and hadn’t had the money to return for every Christmas. My older sister, who had been married for three years, was visiting with her husband. For the first time in a long time, our family felt complete.
That Christmas Eve was a special one and has given me many fond memories. Bright lights sparkled on the Christmas tree that blessed the room with its scent. Everywhere festive holly, garland, wreaths, or some other ornamentation decorated the house. The sounds of laughter mixed with the faint Christmas carols that came from my sisters singing to each other in the upstairs bedrooms. From the kitchen drifted the heavenly aromas of turkey, potatoes, and pumpkin pie.
It was in the midst of this happy scene that I heard my mother calling me from the kitchen. Slowly I pushed myself up from the floor, where I had been sitting listening to one of my brother’s stories about college, and dragged myself into the kitchen.
My mother was wrapping up a beautiful golden pumpkin pie.
“James,” she said without looking up. “I need you to run this pie over to Clair. I promised him that I would bring it, but I just don’t have the time. Thank you!”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she had already hustled me out the door so I had no chance to argue. I couldn’t believe it. It was Christmas Eve, all of my family was having a great time, and I was stuck driving alone in the snow to a strange old man’s house to deliver a pie.
It was barely noon, but already a gray dreariness hung in the sky. The icy wind had picked up and the dark clouds hung low, giving every indication of an impending snowstorm. With luck I wouldn’t be gone long, and I’d beat the storm back home. I climbed into the old pickup and started the engine.
Clair was our closest neighbor, but it still took a while to get to his house. I didn’t know much about him, not even his last name. His wife had died before I was born, and all of his children were grown, married, and lived far away. I supposed he was at least 80 years old, just a lonely old hermit. The rest of his farm had been sold a long time ago, but he still lived in the same house, the house he had built himself. My mom said he flatly refused to leave, even when his children begged him to move in with one of them. He even refused to go to visit them over Christmas. He would say, “I just can’t leave my home.” His home now was really little more than a two-room shack. It was old, weak, and run-down—much like the man who lived in it—but he loved it.
When I pulled up to the shack, I wasn’t surprised to see that all the lights were off. After all, I thought, it was the holidays and even Clair must have some friends to visit somewhere, right? Still, I had a pie to deliver, so I decided to make sure no one was home. I knocked lightly and waited. After a few minutes, I tried the door handle. The door opened easily.
“Who is it?” a voice growled.
“It’s James from down the road,” I answered above the rising wind.
“What do you want?” the voice asked.
“I brought you this pie …” I began.
“What kind of pie?” he demanded.
“I think it’s pumpkin.”
“Well bring it in and shut the door. It’s awfully cold outside.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, ducking inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. I flipped the switch and the lights flickered on. The small room was a far cry from the cheeriness of my own home. I shivered slightly.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said softly. “Is there a reason it’s so cold in here?”
“Of course there’s a reason,” he snapped. “Would I be sitting here in the blasted cold for no reason? I just don’t have the strength to build a fire, that’s all. And stop calling me ’sir.’ My name’s Clair.”
Without waiting for permission, I started building a fire in the cold fireplace. It wasn’t long before the light and warmth of the fire was spreading all about the small room.
“Much better,” I said.
The fire seemed to lift the old man’s spirits as well. Cheerfully, he demanded, “Well now, James. Let’s cut up that pumpkin pie, shall we?”
I really wanted to get back home and was tempted to excuse myself, but one look at the lonely man’s expectant face, and all I could do was ask where the forks and plates were. As I was serving large helpings for both of us, Clair said, “Of course I would be doing this if I had the strength, but since my illness, some days it’s just too hard.”
I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t even known he was sick.
When we had finished one piece of pie, and I was dishing up another, I finally asked him, “How could you raise five kids in a house like this?”
After I said it, I realized how rude it must have sounded, but he didn’t seem to notice. He thought a moment and said, “Well now, James, just because this house is small doesn’t mean it wasn’t big enough. There was plenty of room for love, and this house has seen a lot of it.”
“But why do you still live here all alone?”
“Oh, I’m not alone at all,” he sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Sure I could go live with my children or grandchildren and be surrounded by people. But here I’m surrounded by memories. This house has seen better days, happy days full of laughter, love, and joy.
“Christmases were never this dull before. We’d have a large tree in that corner with all the children’s presents underneath it. Their stockings would hang above the fire, and in years when the farm was doing well, there would be twice as many presents and a big turkey dinner as well.”
Clair paused and leaned forward intently. “But it wasn’t the turkey, the presents, the tree, or anything else that made Christmas special, James. It was having our family together, sharing our lives and love. That is what made Christmas a happy time. The outside world could go on its merry way, or even end for all we cared. When we were close together nothing else mattered. And now that everyone close to me is gone, I can still sit alone remembering those happy times and it’s like they’re all here.
The silence that followed as I thought of what he had said was suddenly broken by a fierce howl of the wind. It startled both of us, and I hurried outside. The storm had hit suddenly and viciously. The snow swirled all around so that I could barely see a few feet in front of me. I walked a few feet away from the house and tripped over a large pine bough that had broken off in the wind. I ran back into the house with the branch in my hand.
Clair looked at me in puzzlement, but I didn’t say anything until I had the branch standing up in a corner, supported by some books.
“There!” I said with satisfaction.
“What is it?” Clair asked.
“It’s your Christmas tree, of course.”
Clair looked at it, frowning. Then he started to laugh. It was a wheezy, tired laugh; but it grew steadily stronger, as if he were just out of practice. I couldn’t help joining him.
And so, with the wind shrieking outside, the snow piling up deeper and the day growing later, Clair and I set about decorating the tree. Clair had given his decorations away to his children, so we cut paper snowflakes and strung popcorn. Then I draped them over the little branches according to Clair’s directions. I tried to get Clair to sing Christmas carols with me, but he protested, saying he was too old. No amount of coaxing seemed to work, so I sang twice as loud.
When we were finished, we sat in silence, admiring our work. The sorry little tree only stood three feet high. No fancy presents lay beneath it, and no lights shone from its branches. But we both agreed it was the prettiest Christmas tree we had ever seen. It was even more beautiful to me than the lavishly decorated tree at home.
That thought gave me an idea.
“Clair,” I asked, “how would you like to come home with me and spend Christmas with my family?”
Clair looked almost angry. “James, I already said that I didn’t want to be surrounded by a bunch of people when I’m perfectly happy here.” He paused for a moment. “I’m not going to burden your folks when I’ve got my own home.”
“You won’t be a burden,” I said. “They’ll love it.” When I saw that he wasn’t going to budge, I added softly, “And besides, no amount of memories can replace the love of living human beings.”
Clair looked away in silence. For a few minutes he sat stubbornly still. Then I saw tears fill his eyes and he asked, “What about our tree?”
I grinned. “We’ll leave it here and it will be waiting when you get back.”
“All right, I’ll go, but just for an hour or so.” He sighed heavily, but I could see the twinkle in his eyes.
In the increasing dimness of the dying firelight I gathered a few things that Clair wanted to take so that he could still have his memories with him for Christmas. By now the snow was so bad I could hardly see my way to the truck and had to use the wall of the house to guide me. As we pulled away from Clair’s house, I looked in the rearview mirror. Through the snow, the house was just a dark form, a place where, minutes before, Clair and I had shared a pumpkin pie. The little house that had been built with such loving care was just a house, I realized.
But for some reason, I felt a strange sense of peace—glad that the little house could have had one more happy memory. Clair must have felt this same peace, for he began to sing softly, “Silent Night, Holy Night.”
All the way home we sang Christmas carols. Despite the slow treacherous drive, we were home sooner than I had expected. It was late and I knew my mom was worried, but I quickly explained what had happened. The family welcomed Clair as if he were one of us.
The next morning, Clair’s daughter arrived unexpectedly with her husband and children. They had come to surprise him for Christmas, and after a few days of pleading, he gave in and went to live with her family. Before he left he said something to me about thanks for showing him that love comes from people, not places. He telephoned Christmas Day every year until he passed away. And now, when I look back at my favorite Christmas memory, it is not one of a big Christmas feast, a bright Christmas tree, or even the beautiful sound of my sisters singing carols. Rather, it is the memory of eating pumpkin pie in a small, lonely shack, a humble three-foot branch decorated with paper and popcorn, and the memory of a lonely old man singing “Silent Night” that fills my heart with love.

The Grossman family has a great love for missionary work. In September 1993, Gunar’s mother was walking home from shopping when a pair of missionaries said hello to her. After she stopped and talked with them, they asked if they could come to her home to share their message when her husband and children were there. She said yes!
After a few visits, the family knew that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was true. They also knew that the Church would help them to be a stronger, better, and happier family. On November 7, 1993, Mother, Father, Gunar, his older sister, Gerit, and his older brother, Gert, were baptized members of the Church. When three-year-old Germar turns eight, he will be baptized too.

Such cruelty is a mystery to Adjoa. Her own heart is tender toward all suffering or sadness. She was already comforting those who stood in need of comfort before she ever made baptismal covenants. And if she can’t help someone personally, she fasts and prays for him. When her younger brother, Dominic, who had been living with her aunt and uncle, was taken to live with his grandmother in London, Adjoa was worried about him. She fasted and prayed for him and was comforted.

Adjoa dreams of being a wife and mother someday, but she is also preparing herself to be a businesswoman until that day comes. Whatever happens, she won’t forget the real reason she came to earth. “Heavenly Father sent us here to get a body and be tested and then return to Him. He gave us a Savior who died on the cross to save us from our sins. I love Jesus. I love Heavenly Father.”

One of Ghana’s most important crops is cacao, from which yummy chocolate is made. But Ghana’s future depends on something sweeter than chocolate. It rests with children like Adjoa whose love and goodness will call down the powers of heaven on behalf of their people.

Note: Since this story was written, Adjoa has been reunited with her parents and three brothers.

Through family outings we’ve learned the importance of closeness and working together. One incident particularly comes to mind. Our family was out on the lake sailing one gloomy day. It was windy, and the waters were rough and cold. In the process of tacking the boat, which is changing the sails and direction, we caught a wind that blew the boat strongly over to one side. We all moved to the other side, and one of my brothers slipped and slid off the boat. We all worked together and pulled him aboard while trying not to capsize. It was then that we realized how much it would affect our family if one member were lost or taken from us.

“Welcome to class, everyone.”
Riley looked up at her new teacher and smiled. He looked younger than her other teachers. His voice cracked as he spoke. He cleared his throat and continued.
“I’m Mr. Berrett.”
A student raised his hand. “Are you new?” he asked.
“Yes. I just graduated from college. You are my very first class.”
Then Mr. Berrett explained what the class would be learning. He spoke softly. Sometimes it was hard to hear him.
Riley could hear kids whispering behind her. That made it even harder to hear what Mr. Berrett said. But Riley did her best to listen. When Mr. Berrett looked at her, she smiled.
At dinner that night, Mom asked about Riley’s first day at school.
“I like my classes and my teachers,” Riley said. “We have one teacher who’s brand new. He was kind of nervous. Some of the kids made fun of him.”
“Sometimes even teachers get nervous,” Dad said.
Mom smiled. “I’m glad you’re there to cheer him on.”
The next day, Riley heard some kids talking in the hall.
“I have Mr. Berrett too,” one of them said. “I couldn’t even hear him yesterday.”
“Did you hear his voice crack?”
“It’s gonna be a long year,” another kid said. They all laughed.
Riley thought about what Dad had said about teachers getting nervous too. Yesterday was Mr. Berrett’s first day of school. That was probably pretty scary. Mom said to cheer him on. How could Riley do that?
When Riley said her prayers that night, she asked Heavenly Father to let her know how to help Mr. Berrett.
The next day, Riley opened her lunch. Inside was a note from Mom. “You’re great!” it said. Riley smiled. She loved Mom’s notes. Her family called them “happy notes.”
That was it! Riley and her classmates could write a happy note for Mr. Berrett!
Riley invited some of her classmates to meet at her house after school. They decorated a big, bright poster with smiley faces and stars. They wrote things they liked about Mr. Berrett. They wrote things they had already learned from him. And they told him they were glad he was their teacher.
The next day, Riley and a few friends got to school early. They hung the poster on Mr. Berrett’s classroom door. Then they hid around the corner to watch what happened.
Soon Mr. Berrett got to his classroom. “Oh!” he said. Riley and her classmates watched him read their notes. A big smile spread across his face.
When Riley saw how happy he was, she felt happy too. She smiled and gave her friends a high five.
As they walked away, Riley heard someone say, “I can’t wait to go to Mr. Berrett’s class today!” Riley couldn’t wait either.
This story took place in the USA.

I am grateful to the Lord for my membership in His Church. My investigation of this Church was never through anyone but by the power of God. I and my family members had attended so many churches. Our membership would have been earlier, but rumors about the Book of Mormon scared us until I was pushed by God. I liked what the Church offered me in their classes. The lessons were according to my needs, which I extended to my family members and now, we are all members of the Church.
Before my membership, I had always returned home late, but now I have been able to overcome that so I have time to discuss with my family, teach my children, and look over their work. My family is a peaceful one now and I am grateful to the Lord for that. I know that God lives and that this is His Church, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen. —Sorba Brima, Quarter Branch, Bo-Sierra Leone West Stake

I asked Janie first. She’s my baby-sitter. “How can wishes come true?”
“I can’t tell you,” she answered, returning to her book, “but I wish I had the blue dress in this catalog.”
It was a pretty dress.
“I’m saving my baby-sitting money to buy it,” she added.
I next asked Mom as she left for work, “How can wishes come true?”
“I can’t tell you,” she said, “but I wish the living room would be picked up and vacuumed. After work I must go by the dry cleaners, so I’ll be late.”
When my big brother came home from school, I asked him, “Jack, how can wishes come true?”
“I can’t tell you,” he replied, “but I wish for an A in geometry.”
That afternoon and evening Jack left the television off and worked hard on his geometry.
As soon as Dad came home, I asked him, “How can wishes come true?”
“I can’t tell you,” he answered, “but I wish my good suit was cleaned and pressed. I need it tomorrow.” Looking at Mom’s note saying that she would be late, he started picking up the living room. “Hmmm … it needs the full treatment,” he said. He wheeled out the vacuum cleaner.
“I wish I could ride my bike, now that you took off the training wheels,” I said as he was putting the vacuum cleaner away.
“Come on, I’ll help you practice.”
First he showed me how to stop and get off. Then he gave me some good starts, and I began to get the hang of it.
When Mom came home, she looked around with pleasure at the clean, inviting living room. And the next morning Dad was happy to find his freshly pressed suit in his closet.
That afternoon Janie seemed happy. She had received a birthday check from her grandmother. “In another week I’ll have enough for my blue dress.”
Jack came home, walked right past the basketball hoop he loved to shoot at, and went into his room.
“When’s the test?” I asked.
“Next week. I have three more study sessions.”
A week passed. I practiced every day riding my bicycle in the driveway. I had a skinned elbow, a bruised knee, and a scraped ankle, but I finally mastered the bike.
I was proudly riding it when Janie came by to model her beautiful blue dress for me.
“You look great, Janie,” Jack said as he came down the sidewalk. Then he grinned and waved a geometry test paper with a 94 on it!
How can wishes come true? Figure it out—I did!

I entered the airport in Brasilia and looked around with excitement. It was the last day of my mission, and I was returning to my hometown in another part of Brazil by airplane—my first time flying!
I could see dark clouds and drizzling rain outside the airport windows, and I looked hopefully for any break in the clouds. I wanted the sky to be blue and the day to be sunny so I would be able to see the cities, the mountains, the forests, and everything else we would fly over. “When you fly,” others had told me, “things look so tiny.” I wanted to feel like the birds feel and see the things they see when they fly so high.
After the plane took off, I peered out the window eagerly. But the closer we got to the clouds, the stronger the rain pounded down. I shrugged my shoulders and sighed with disappointment: I couldn’t see anything. My first plane trip is turning into a flop, I thought, turning away from the window.
All of a sudden, the airplane passed through the clouds, and the sun’s rays shone brightly through the window, catching my attention. When I looked out the window, I saw a sky so intensely blue that it hurt my eyes. The clouds below us were a cotton blanket of spectacular whiteness. I wanted to jump out and run on top of them.
For two hours I stared at the wondrous world around me, amazed that above the dense clouds and storms that had assaulted my vision was such beauty and light. When the airplane eventually dropped below the clouds and into the gray again, I had almost forgotten the storm below.
Since that day, I have passed through many storms in my life, including the pain and loneliness of losing my mother. But I know that there is a purpose for the storms; I know what lies above the clouds.

Do you remember President Nelson playing the song “Hope of Israel” on the piano in the worldwide Youth Music Festival on March 17, 2021? Calling us the Lord’s youth battalion, he invited us to let the Spirit guide us as we help to gather Israel in these latter days.
Probably like many of you, I wondered what I as a 15-year-old could do to follow the prophet’s invitation, especially in the middle of a worldwide pandemic.
A year earlier, President Nelson had also invited the world to #HearHim, meaning to listen to the words of the Lord Jesus Christ. I knew the Book of Mormon was another testament of Jesus Christ. The idea came to me to help people hear the Lord’s voice by sharing the Book of Mormon in a new way: as a podcast recorded by teenagers.
“I thought it would be cool to hear the book read by everyday teens like you and me.”
In addition to the professionally produced recordings of the Book of Mormon available from the Church, I thought it would be cool to hear the book read by everyday teens like you and me, the way we experience it. We don’t always read perfectly, and not everyone knows how to pronounce every word correctly. But that’s OK because none of us is perfect anyway. I actually kind of like the imperfections in some of the recordings—it makes me feel like I’m listening to one of my friends reading.
The project took a lot of work. It turns out that requesting, editing, assembling, publishing, and hosting a podcast with recordings from 250 different people is quite a big job. The result is a recording of the entire text of the Book of Mormon featuring readers from 15 U.S. states and 10 countries from around the world. The recordings can be heard on the website www.teensreadthebook.com and on all major podcast listening platforms under Teens Read the Book.
McKay (center in the yellow shirt) gathers with other youth who helped with the podcast. They enjoyed the chance to talk about the podcast and reflect on the blessing it was to work on it.
I love hearing the variety of voices and accents of youth who sent in recordings. Knowing their voices would be heard around the world, many readers worked very hard to get their recordings just right. Some, like Thomas from New Zealand (who read 3 Nephi 20) or José from Peru (who read 3 Nephi 23), practiced for hours or days before recording. A group of 10 youth from South Korea faced the challenge of English not being their first language. Their solution was to work together, each recording a few verses at a time and stitching them together into what became 2 Nephi 28 and 29.
My goal when I started the project was to help people feel the Spirit and come closer to Jesus Christ. Seeing youth, most of whom I don’t know, respond to my invitation showed me how deeply they felt about the Book of Mormon. Their words have now been downloaded and listened to thousands of times. They are helping people feel the Spirit of God.
One returned missionary wrote me saying that in recent months he had “been praying for a new way to read [the Book of Mormon] or a fresh way to study. This project has been an answer to my prayers.”
I am grateful to those who contributed to this project and for the way I felt the Lord’s help doing it. I am honored to be part of the Lord’s youth battalion, standing alongside others who love the Book of Mormon. I have also learned that when we respond to invitations from the Lord’s prophet, the Spirit will guide our efforts.
For myself, I know the Book of Mormon can help us feel the Spirit and draw closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Some of the happiest times of my life have been when I’ve consistently read from the Book of Mormon. I hope all of us in the Lord’s youth battalion will hear the Lord’s voice and feel His strength through the words of the Book of Mormon.
The author lives in California, USA.

At age 54, before he was called as a General Authority, President Russell M. Nelson attended a meeting in which President Spencer W. Kimball challenged attendees to “be of service to the Chinese” and “learn their language.”
Although he was a busy heart surgeon at the time, President Nelson took this counsel to heart. He found a tutor to help him learn the Mandarin language.
It wasn’t long before President Nelson found himself sitting next to a distinguished Chinese surgeon, Dr. Wu Yingkai, at a medical convention. Because of his Chinese language studies, President Nelson was able to have a conversation with Dr. Wu. From there, the two doctors formed a lasting friendship and even visited each other’s countries.
President Nelson’s goal to learn Mandarin led to positive exchanges with China, as President Kimball had hoped for. After he was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, President Nelson even performed his last heart surgery on China’s most famous opera singer by special request.

In between serving slices of leche flan, a rich custard topped with burnt-sugar caramel, Maryjoy Morato, 17, of the Wilshire Ward, told how missionaries in the Philippines contacted her family and shared with them the gospel of Jesus Christ.
“They just knocked on the door one day,” she said. “But they were always welcome in our home because they would talk about good things.” Exposed to the light of the restored gospel, the entire family eventually joined the Church. Maryjoy’s father died, her mother remarried, and the family moved to America. “Members here are the same as in the Philippines,” she said. “There’s no change. They’re all nice.”

Illustration by Mark Robison
Allie could see the word clearly in her mind—portion. Easy. Just a few more words to go, and she’d be the school spelling-bee champion for sure.
P-O-R …
Allie and her parents had come from another country and had to learn a new language. Her parents encouraged her to do her best in school. Allie didn’t want to disappoint them.
But she knew she’d do well. She loved words. That’s how she had learned English so quickly. She even translated for her parents a lot. Winning the spelling bee was another way to show them she was doing her best.
Broccoli, exaggerate, mischievous, separate.
She spelled all those words correctly. Now it was just Allie and two other students on stage.
“P-O-R-I-T-I-O-N, portion,” Allie finished. She opened her eyes and smiled at the judge.
The judge frowned. “I’m so sorry, Allie. The correct spelling is P-O-R-T-I-O-N.”
Allie gasped. What had she done? She’d added an extra i! Her face flushed and her heart pounded. How could she have missed such an easy word? She couldn’t believe this was happening after all her hard work.
Coming down from the stage, Allie could barely see the stairs as tears welled up in her eyes. She just wanted to be invisible. How would she face everyone?
“May I go home?” she asked her teacher. “I’m not feeling very well.”
“Of course, Allie,“ Mrs. Bauer said.
Allie grabbed her books and ran straight home.
Soon Mom tapped on her bedroom door. “Are you OK, Alexandra? How was the spelling bee?”
Allie sniffled. “I missed a word, Mom, a dumb, easy word,” she answered, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“OK,” she heard her mother say, but Allie imagined how disappointed Mom probably felt.
Lying on her bed, Allie thought about how bad she felt. It wasn’t so much about misspelling an easy word, although that was really hard. But she felt she had failed her parents and herself.
The next day was Saturday. Mom made Allie her favorite breakfast to cheer her up. But Allie stayed in her room most of the day. Her best friend, Lindsay, called to see if she wanted to play, but all Allie could do was lie on her bed and think over and over about that awful moment at the spelling bee.
Finally Sunday came, and Allie wondered if she should even go to church. When Allie had first moved in, Lindsay had invited her to come to church with her family. Allie’s parents weren’t members of the Church, but they agreed to let her go. When Allie turned eight, her parents had even let her be baptized!
Allie was still sad today, but she still wanted to go to church. When Lindsay came to the door, Allie kissed her parents goodbye and headed outside.
Allie’s heart began to feel lighter as she walked into the chapel. What was that feeling?
When it was time for Primary, Allie and Lindsay were talking happily as they sat down. Then Allie heard a familiar song. She’d sung the words many times before, but she’d never really thought about what they were saying until now.
I am a child of God, and He has sent me here,
Has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear.
Suddenly it seemed like these words were just for her. They were a gift from Heavenly Father. They reminded her that her parents wanted her to do her best because they loved her. Her Heavenly Parents loved her too. And she felt the Spirit telling her that as long as she was trying to do her best, that was good enough.
These are the best words ever! Allie thought.

Many years ago, I saw the meaning of love in a couple, Keith and Geneva, who demonstrated their love for each other for over 56 years of marriage. Marriage can bring many joys. In the deeply personal covenants of marriage, it can also provide a rich opportunity to provide support for each partner during times of illness or trial. For Keith and Geneva, their love for each other was tested after 27 years of marriage and six children.
At age 52, Geneva was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, a degenerative nerve disease that took away Geneva’s ability to run, to dance, and eventually even to walk or stand. A talented sculptor and artist, she lost the ability to use her hands to sculpt. Due to the debilitating nature of the disease, the divorce rate is high among couples where one of the partners is diagnosed with MS. Geneva valiantly battled the disease for 29 years. One of the reasons Geneva was able to meet the illness with such courage was the constant, devoted care of her husband, Keith. Keith cherished his dear wife. He loved her with all his heart. He made changes in their home to make things easier for Geneva. He adjusted his own schedule to meet her needs. He stood by her during all her medical appointments and treatments. He lifted her literally and figuratively as the disease progressed in her body. He lived to make her life a joyful experience, regardless of the progression of the disease.
As I watched the love between Keith and Geneva flourish and deepen over many years and many trials, I eagerly anticipate seeing the great joy they will experience as they have resurrected bodies and continue in their life and marriage together throughout eternity, free of physical disease and pain. They loved each other with all their hearts.

By the time the sun began to sparkle on the Bear River and warm the cattle on the Wyoming ranch, Minerva Teichert had been up for some time. There was breakfast to cook for her husband Herman, the five children, and a few ranch workers. Every morning there were milk bottles for the dairy that would take several hours to clean and sterilize. In addition, there were chickens to feed, clothes to wash and mend, a garden to weed. By the time the household began to quiet down for the evening, she had cooked two more meals and finished a variety of other chores that life on a ranch in the 1930s demanded.
But still Minerva’s day was not complete. It never was until she had picked up her brush and her “palette”—a long piece of wood dabbed with oil paints—and spent a few precious moments at her canvas.
Minerva was “filled and thrilled,” she said, by the heroism of the pioneers, too enchanted by the strong beauty of the American Indian, too captivated by the glory of animals in unfettered motion, to take her subjects lightly. From childhood, the faith of the prophets had flowed in her veins. And all her life, her love for the beautiful and the heroic drove her to paint and give it expression on canvas. This she did with bold strokes, in a style uniquely hers.
Last year, for the one-hundredth anniversary of her birth, the Museum of Church History and Art featured a collection of Minerva Kohlhepp Teichert’s work. In past years, her paintings have appeared in Church magazines and manuals, but widespread recognition of Sister Teichert’s importance as an artist has been slow in coming. The show included a selection of her forty-plus-piece Book of Mormon mural series, murals chronicling the Latter-day Saint pioneer trek and the settling of the American West, portraits, still-life floral paintings, and work from her student days.
Minerva Kohlhepp was just four when her mother, a strong and creative woman, gave her a set of watercolors. From that moment, the child considered herself an artist. Everywhere she went, young Minerva carried a sketchpad and charcoal or pencil.
Born on 28 August 1888 in North Ogden, Utah, Minerva was the second of ten Kohlhepp children. Most of her early years were spent on her family’s Idaho homestead. The Kohlhepp family was poor financially, and with no school nearby, Minerva had little formal education as a small child. But each night her father gathered the children around to read the scriptures or classics of literature.
Minerva left home for the first time at age fourteen to work as a nursemaid for a wealthy Idaho family in San Francisco. There she saw museum art for the first time and attended classes at the Mark Hopkins Art School. But it was not until she had graduated from high school back home and taught school for several years that she was able to pursue any serious training in art.
By age nineteen, she had saved enough money to go to Chicago, Illinois, where she studied at the Chicago Art Institute under the great John Vanderpoel. Several times during her three-year course she had to go home to earn more money by working in the fields or in the classroom. But Minerva always returned to her studies. With characteristic confidence, Minerva once confronted Mr. Vanderpoel, asking why he criticized her work so harshly when so many classmates were doing much poorer work. She later recalled, “I shall never forget the disappointment on the man’s face when he answered in a choked voice, ‘Can it be possible you do not understand; those other students are not worth it, they will eventually leave school, but you—ah, there is no end’” (“Miss Kohlhepp’s Own Story,” Pocatello, Idaho, 1917).
By 1912, she had finished her course at the Art Institute and returned west to earn more money. During this period she was courted by two young men—calling off a wedding with one wealthy suitor when she learned that he didn’t want to be married in a Mormon church. The other young man, not a Church member either (she knew no Latter-day Saint young men), was Herman Teichert. Herman was a gentle cowboy whose favorite activity was chasing wild horses on the desert by moonlight. In April 1915, however, she left Herman behind, telling him to marry someone else, and went to the Art Students’ League in New York City.
At the time, the League was one of the most important art centers in the world. Minerva paid for the privilege of studying there in a variety of ways, including sketching cadavers for medical schools and performing rope tricks and Indian dances.
At this critical point in her life, Minerva had two experiences that took her out of the art world. The first experience crystallized her desire for life with a family—specifically, for life with Herman. In a testimony meeting she was listening to a sister speak on the joys of marriage and motherhood. “I thought of all the men I had met in my search for ‘the right one,’” wrote Minerva later. At that moment, she realized that “back on the Idaho desert, herding his cattle and branding his calves was a man more nearly meant for me than anyone else in the world” (unpublished autobiographical sketch, 1937, transcription from handwritten manuscript). Never one to doubt her own judgment, Minerva returned home to Idaho and married Herman.
The other experience helped her to strengthen her feeling that she had a mission as an artist and that she should place her art in the service of her faith. Minerva later recorded how Robert Henri, one of her renowned teachers, asked her, shortly before she left New York, whether any artist had ever told the “great Mormon story.”
“Not to my liking,’ I answered. ‘Good Heavens, girl, what an opportunity. You do it. You’re the one. That’s your birthright. You’ll do it well.’
“I felt that I had been commissioned” (unpublished manuscript, 1947).
Minerva Teichert spent the rest of her life, and her enormous vitality, answering these two callings—one to love and serve her family, the other to tell the story of her people and her faith through her art.
When Herman returned from serving in France during World War I, he and Minerva moved to the old Teichert family homestead in Idaho. Minerva loved this place, but they were eventually forced to leave by the construction of a new reservoir. They made their new home on a cattle ranch at Cokeville, Wyoming. Minerva painted scenes of the Idaho countryside around their old home in a frieze for the living room of their new home. For more than forty years, this room was both Minerva’s studio and the center of the Teichert household. She cooked meals on a wood-burning stove, occasionally adding a touch to a painting as she cooked. Every night while the family ate supper, she read to them—literature, history, and the scriptures.
In that same living room she developed a strong, original style as she painted hundreds of murals, portraits, and other works. The conditions were far from ideal for painting. The room was too small to spread out her larger murals. She sometimes had to fold the canvas, painting one section at a time. To see her murals in perspective, she would look through the small end of a pair of binoculars. Distractions were constant. But somehow Minerva persisted. “I must paint,” she once explained (unpublished manuscript, 1947).
Minerva’s spiritual life was guided by dreams and by an increasing ability to rely on the Lord. As a young mother, she turned down an opportunity to study in London, England, with her great teacher Robert Henri when she dreamed of a daughter who would soon be born to her. Laurie, the only Teichert daughter, was born with the next year or so. In the same way, Minerva saw future daughters-in-law in dreams before she met them. She trusted implicitly what she felt the Lord had told her and taught her children and grandchildren to rely on His guidance.
One of the highlights of her spiritual life was Herman’s baptism in 1933. He had supported her Church participation and paid tithing for years. Minerva and Herman were later sealed in the Logan Temple.
Minerva Teichert’s mission in art had two crowning points. One was the completion of the Book of Mormon mural series. She had felt that having the series published by the Church would be the ultimate fulfillment of her mission as an artist. When she could interest no one in publishing the paintings, she was devastated and eventually donated them to Brigham Young University.
But if the reception of the Book of Mormon murals was one of her life’s greatest disappointments, her commission to paint murals in the world room in the Manti Temple was one of its great satisfactions. In 1947, at the age of fifty-nine, Minerva Teichert and an assistant completed the murals in just a few months, a remarkable example of her almost unimaginable vitality.
By her death in 1976 at the age of eighty-seven, Minerva Kohlhepp Teichert had created perhaps as many as a thousand pieces of art. “Eternity seems very real to me,” she wrote in 1937. Then, expressing her eternal wish: “I want … to be able to paint after I leave here. Even though I should come back nine times I still would not have exhausted my supply of subjects and one life time is far too short but may be a schooling for the next.