Gospel Story Finder

As a convert in 1972, I became inactive for over 20 years. I became active again about 10 years ago and have been sealed in the temple to my husband, also a convert. I loved President Hinckley and felt that no prophet could take his place. As President Monson was offered for our sustaining vote, I felt angry and somewhat bitter, because I didn’t think he could do the job. Oh, how stiffnecked I was! When President Monson rose to speak, I looked into his eyes and watched his every movement. There was the very same sparkle and gleam in his eyes that had been in my beloved President Hinckley’s! I was overcome with joy and recognition of the presence of the Holy Spirit in this man—my new prophet, seer, and revelator.
Mary Lou R., New Mexico, USA

As my research on Hyrum continued, my friend suggested I compile the work into a book. I had never anticipated writing a book. Had he not asked me to do so, I would never have done it. But, in March 2001, I began.

Within a few weeks, knowledgeable people told me that there was a potential conflict between what I was doing and what some professionals in the field were working on. They told me to wait until these problems could be resolved. I had no experience with which to counter their cautions, but I had a strong feeling in my heart. In fact, it was more than a feeling.

President Marion G. Romney once said, "I know what Enos meant when he said, the voice of the Lord came into my mind ...' (Enos 10.) By this means," President Romney continued, "I have received in sentences answers to my prayers."

That is often the case for me. I get feelings and impression, but sometimes I get sentences. Amid those mortal voices telling me to wait, an immutable voice spoke to my heart and said, "Go forward."

That was all it said. No fanfare. No details. No explanation. None was needed. The direction was simple. Just go forward.

Like the message I had received a year earlier about willingness, this one proclaimed a theme in Hyrum's life. Hyrum was always going forward and he was always on the right course.

In the weeks that followed my personal "go forward" experience, I wrote the entire first draft of Hyrum Smith's biography. Reading through my journal, I am amazed at the experiences I had during that time. I felt that the Lord was helping me”and, perhaps, Hyrum too. As it turned out, the conflict either evaporated or it was resolved by means never explained to me. No one ever contacted me to tell me it was alright to proceed. Had I waited, I might still be waiting, and I would have only wasted time. Instead, I just followed the impression I had received and went forward.

“Bucky, Bucky,” called Mother. “Where is that boy?” she asked Kelly. “He was here a moment ago.”
Kelly looked under the kitchen table. “He’s not under there. Maybe he’s hiding.”
“It’s time for his nap. Where can he be?”
“I’ll find him,” Kelly said. She looked behind the door, but Bucky wasn’t there. She looked in the broom closet, but Bucky wasn’t there, either. Next, Kelly went to Bucky’s bedroom and looked under his bed. No Bucky. This calls for real action, she thought.
Kelly went to her own room, opened her toy box, and tossed toys onto the floor. At the very bottom of the toy box, she saw what she was looking for. Holding the magnifier to her eye, she chortled, “Now I’ll find him!” She replaced the other toys, then went back to the kitchen and asked Mother, “Is this where he was last seen?”
“Yes.”
Kelly looked all around the kitchen. “Aha!” she cried. “The cover is off the cookie jar.” With her magnifier, she followed the trail of cookie crumbs out the door. Oh dear, she thought. Cookie crumbs will be hard to see in the grass.
Some little birds were feeding beside the toolshed. Maybe that’s where he is. Birds can find crumbs anywhere.
Kelly opened the toolshed door. “Bucky,” she called, “are you in here?”
Bucky wasn’t in the toolshed, but he had been there. Kelly found a tiny piece of his shirt caught on the rake. She closed the shed door and looked all around. It had rained, and there was a puddle in the driveway. Bucky loves puddles, she mused.
Wet footprints led from the puddle to the sidewalk. Kelly followed them to the corner. Then there were no more. “Hmmm,” Kelly said, scratching her head.
“Hello, Kelly,” said Mrs. Jones.
“Hello, Mrs. Jones. Have you seen Bucky?”
“He was here just a few minutes ago,” Mrs. Jones replied. “I think that he rode off on the back of some boy’s tricycle.”
“Did you see which way they went?”
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “I was busy in my garden. They were gone when I turned around.”
“Thank you,” said Kelly. As she looked up and down the street, she thought, Mrs. Jones had said “some boy’s tricycle.” If it had been Mike or Tony, she would have said his name. So it must have been the new boy over on the other street.
Kelly ran down the block and around two corners. She didn’t see Bucky. She didn’t see the new boy. And she didn’t see a tricycle.
I think that the new boy lives here, Kelly thought, running up the steps of the pretty brick house and ringing the doorbell.
A lady carrying a baby came to the door. They both smiled at Kelly.
“Hello,” said Kelly. “Have you seen a boy about this big?” She held up the bit of cloth that had caught in the rake. “He had on a shirt this color with a tear in it.”
The lady looked at the cloth. “There was a boy here with a shirt like that, but he’s not here now. And my Charlie is taking his nap.”
Kelly thanked the lady and went back down the steps and headed down the block the other way toward home. Mr. Harvey was sitting on his porch. “Have you seen Bucky?” Kelly asked him.
“Not today,” answered Mr. Harvey.
Mr. Harvey saw everything. He sat on his porch all day. He talked to everyone who went past. If Mr. Harvey didn’t see Bucky, Kelly decided, then Bucky didn’t come this way. Where could he have gone?
Kelly looked back the way she had come. If Bucky had gone back that way, she reasoned, I would have met him. So he had to cut through Charlie’s backyard.
Queenie woofed at Kelly after she had cut through the new boy’s yard and was passing Mike’s house.
Bucky’s afraid of Queenie because she’s so big, but he loves her new puppy! Kelly thought, excited.
She ran as fast as she could around the house. There they were, curled up together in a sunny corner of the porch, fast asleep.

Painting the house was the biggest job. It was a project that lasted two months, two of the best months of summer, and involved everyone in the family. When we—I had six brothers and sisters—became old enough and careful enough we would be given the honor of doing the actual painting. This honor was bestowed with great ceremony. The night before the painting started, a large bonfire was built and then with the entire family watching my father would tap the shoulders of the honored person with a paintbrush.
“I knight you into the royal order of the paintbrush of the Madison family,” he said in his deepest and most ceremonious voice.
Afterward we celebrated with a banquet of fried chicken, potato salad, homemade root beer, and cake. A feast, of course, fit for a king. Toasts were made with the root beer and songs were sung, all directed to the new knight. It was great fun. The knights being initiated into King Arthur’s round table probably felt no more honored than we did when we became knighted into the royal order of the paintbrush.
Unfortunately for me, the year I became old enough to paint was the summer I became interested in baseball. The day painting started was also the day my team had its first practice game.
My mother wouldn’t let me get out of painting to go to the game.
“The house and the family are more important than anything else,” she said.
I knew my team wouldn’t have a chance without me, so while everyone was busy working, I painted my way to a far corner of the house and made a run for it. I reached a row of trees growing on the edge of our property and waited. I watched for a few minutes. No one was following me, so I hurried to the game.
It was the second inning. The other team, the North Side Wolves, had scored four runs. No problem. My team didn’t have anything to worry about. It was my turn to bat.
I stepped up to the plate, ready to hit the first home run of what was going to be an illustrious career of home runs. The pitcher hunkered down, spit, fleered his lips back, and gave me his fiercest scowl.
I just scowled back at him, swung my bat a couple of times for practice, and then to strike terror into the hearts of the outfielders, I casually pointed my bat at the church which was more than half a mile away. Several of them backed up. The pitcher, his face stone hard, swung his arms over his head, beginning the windup.
Just then a dark shadow came over me.
“Must be a cloud passing in front of the sun,” I thought, concentrating on the pitcher. Then I noticed the pitcher had stopped his windup and was backing up.
It was George, my oldest brother. George is big, six foot four, and he has this mean look on his face, the kind of look you see on a mad zoo gorilla. George makes most guys my age a little edgy, but not me. I knew what my mother would do to him if he hurt me.
“Let’s go,” George said. George never says more than he has to.
“After I hit a couple of homers,” I replied casually. I knew everyone there would be impressed with my bravery.
“Hey, let’s play ball!” the pitcher yelled.
George looked at him again and then tightened a hand into a fist. The pitcher dropped the ball and backed up several steps. His face was pale, just like he’d looked death in the face.
George looked at me, shook his head, and then reached for me. I sat down on home plate.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
George shook his head again.
“Dumb.”
He reached down, grabbed my leg, and started for home, dragging me behind him.
He let me walk part of the way after I promised to go along peacefully.
My mother was waiting at the house with my paintbrush and a bucket of paint.
“You do your work here,” she said, “before you do anything else.”

He obtained a position in the government of Venezuela and was sent to London. While there he urged people with influence to force Spain to withdraw from his country, but had little success.
Disappointed, he went back to San Mateo where reports of his revolutionary talk had reached Venezuela ahead of him. So before he was thirty he was banished from his beloved country, his estate was taken from him, and he was left without money or friends. Somehow he managed to get passage on a small boat that took him to the little hot and sandy island of Curacao in the Caribbean Sea.
The island belonged to England at that time and English merchants provided him with food and a bed. Although Simón talked of a revolution against Spanish rule in Venezuela, they were surprised when he and his young cousin Ribas left the island and set sail for Colombia.
Arriving there, the two young men recruited an army of two hundred untrained men who had no uniforms except ragged civilian clothing. Their powder and bullet pouches were made of roughly sewn cowhide, and their worn-out muskets and bayonets were almost useless. Few of them had hats to cover their heads, and most of them had tattered leather sandals on their feet. But Simón was able to inspire and persuade them to follow him. After only a little training, this army captured a Spanish riverside fort in a surprise attack. There the men found ammunition, clothing, and food.
Simón was soon joined by other revolutionaries. Some battles were lost, but more were won. With odds almost beyond belief, Simón was able to rally his forces and add to them after every defeat. They followed him over the nearly insurmountable Andes Mountains, half frozen, hungry, and exhausted. Several women, wives of the soldiers, took part in this march across the mountains and one of them gave birth to a baby on the slopes of Mt. Pisba. At last they reached the plains of Venezuela where the small band of ragged revolutionaries fought a well-equipped army more than twice its size—and won!
Still poorly equipped and outnumbered, Bolívar then led his troops into other countries and also helped them to obtain their freedom.
However, Simón Bolívar, who was so successful in encouraging, training, and leading armies under the most adverse conditions, was unable to unite the various governments of the countries as he wanted so much to do. Disillusioned by the politicians’ jealousies, littleness, and bickering, he once wrote, “It is a terrible truth that it costs more strength to maintain freedom than to endure the weight of tyranny.”
Another time he saluted all men who fight for freedom with these words:
“I drink to the heroic endurance of the soldiers of both armies, to their loyalty, patience and courage. I drink to the men who, defying all terrors, take up the cause of liberty . … But perish all who desire bloodshed and who shed blood in an unjust cause.”
In November of 1830 Simón Bolívar, who had resigned from active government leadership, despaired of uniting South America and, hurt by the political intrigue of men in governments, became ill. Escaping a planned assassination against his life while in Bogota, Colombia, he fled to Santa Marta, the oldest permanent settlement in South America. Alone, misunderstood, and almost penniless he died there December 17, 1830. His farewell message to his countrymen urged them to continue fighting for freedom.
Statues of Simón Bolívar have been erected in the countries where he was once president, and the standard silver coin of Venezuela is named the bolivar after him—El Libertador, the liberator of South America!

“The Way to a Missionary’s Mailbox” in the December New Era was an excellent article. I hope that the many girls who are writing to missionaries will read it and apply the wonderful and appropriate suggestions given therein. I have a strong personal testimony of what the right kind of letters can do for a missionary because I received many such letters during my recently completed mission to France and Switzerland. I cannot remember a single instance in which my friend wrote a letter that was in any way selfish or distracting. There was, of course, news from home, but the majority of the space was used to write thoughts, feelings, insights, and testimony that could only encourage and uplift me. Instead of feeling homesick or full of self-pity after reading her letters, I felt grateful and desirous to work all the more diligently for the Savior. The article spoke of building self-esteem in elders. The friend who wrote to me understood this well and often expressed her respect, her confidence, and her belief in me as a servant of the Lord. This can work miracles and was especially important to me during a very difficult period of my mission. I know that her support played a large part in helping me overcome the difficulties I faced during those months. My friend even earned, at one point, the “Most Edifying Letters to a Missionary Award” presented by the special awards committee of the Switzerland Geneva Mission. I was the committee. I will never cease to be grateful to the Lord for the blessing this sister was to me during my mission.
Walter LenelPhiladelphia, Pennsylvania

I was almost 12 years old when the Twin Falls Idaho Temple was dedicated. I was so excited when my older sister asked me for the first time if I wanted to start going to the temple regularly with her and her friend.
I was happy when my younger brother Tanner turned 12 three years later because I could finally invite him to attend the temple with me.
Each morning that we went, we would help each other get up and go, and when we were tired Tanner would make jokes to help us wake up. After going to the temple, we would take some time to talk about how we’d felt in the temple and what we’d thought about.
Going to the temple with Tanner became the spiritual highlight of my week. Through our regular temple visits we became better friends, which strengthened me more than I would have imagined when some trials came my way. Our two older sisters had left for college and our ward had just been split, leaving Tanner and me as some of the only active youth in our ward.
Tanner and I spent hours calling and inviting less-active youth to church and Mutual. It often felt like a hopeless effort because no one ever came no matter how many girls I tried to befriend.
Our parents tried to help. They would bear testimony to us when we were discouraged, and they let us talk out our frustration when we came home upset. But even so, we didn’t suddenly have more friends at church, and wanting to go when I’d be the only young woman there was getting harder and harder. Our temple visits started becoming less frequent because of our busy school schedules.
I spent a lot of time reading my scriptures and pleading with the Lord to help me be strong. I was lonely and tired—tired of being alone, tired of my efforts not making a difference, tired of struggling spiritually and emotionally.
During this time, I worked as a lifeguard at the city pool. I liked being there a lot more than I liked being at church because my co-workers were my friends and were always excited to see me. One day I decided that I wouldn’t go back to Mutual since work was more fun and more helpful for me financially.
I didn’t think it was a big deal until I noticed myself lowering my standards. I didn’t say anything about my friends’ swearing, and one day I was shocked to hear myself accidentally swear when I never had before. I even watched an inappropriate movie one night at a party with my lifeguarding friends. I felt terrible and wondered what I was doing.
Meanwhile my parents had told me how much more lonely Tanner had become since I stopped attending Mutual. Every week he would ask me, “Hey, are you going to come to Mutual tonight?” When he would get home from Mutual, he would go straight to his room and read his scriptures for a long time. He wasn’t talking as much anymore, and when I asked if he was OK, he just said, “No” and walked away.
One night he came home crying because he had felt so alone.
That’s when I decided that I needed to go back. It didn’t matter how hard being alone was for me; Tanner needed me.
Tanner had been taking a family history course at church, and I decided that I wanted to take it with him. We wanted to start going to the temple more regularly again, and now we would be able to find names ourselves.
We enjoyed taking the class together on Sundays. After church, we’d search for names together. The coolest thing about taking our own names to the temple was that we had found them together, and even better, we were able to support each other at church and even enjoy church because we were doing the Lord’s work.
Tanner’s diligence in attending church and Mutual was a powerful example to me. I had a testimony of the gospel, but he helped me gain a testimony of attending church meetings and activities.
Together we were able to comfort one another and use our testimonies of the temple to help each other be strong in the Church. Youth attendance at church and Mutual never really got better, but Tanner and I became stronger and more able to bear our burdens as we helped each other press forward.
I’m so glad that I invited him to come to the temple with me. While I’m sure it helped him, I know it rescued me.

Even though I had the gospel in my life, life was hard. My father was still not working and had Parkinson’s so during a secondary school vacation, I would pick up any menial work I could find. My father, amidst the challenges of life, quit the Church but allowed me to continue. After secondary school, our stake started the Young Single Adult Gathering Place. I signed up for shoemaking class, but I was alone, so the stake president arranged for me to learn the craft with the instructor at his shop. I am passionate about fashion, especially footwear, because everyone needs footwear, and well-made shoes do not go out of fashion.
I worked long hours for very little pay. Attending church became difficult as I was often required to work on Sundays. I apprenticed for over two years and then was able to break out on my own by saving small amounts until I had enough to buy one tool. It would take me 2–3 months of saving to buy another hand tool, but I had a goal. I had examples of what I was going through in the scriptures, I knew that it would worth it. Sleeping on a bare floor, eating one meal a day, working literally day and night would all prove to help me in the future.
My stake president connected me with a couple who were able to help me get some machines to start my business, Kuatsikor Shoes. I named it after my father, to honor him since he never lived to see my business, having died in July 2019. My motto is “Walk Miles”. In August 2023, I was endowed in the house of the Lord in the Accra Ghana Temple. It was such a great experience. The moment I stepped into the temple, I felt a heavy burden had been lifted, it’s hard to explain. I felt a new peace and joy. The gospel of Jesus Christ has significantly impacted my life because I had the feeling that I was in the right place, my first Sunday at church. I will always be grateful for the self-reliance programs organized at the stake center that gave me insights and knowledge about how to grow my own business and to manage my finances. I believe if I continue to stick to these principles, my vision of becoming the best shoemaker in Africa shall come to pass. I know that God speaks to his servants, the prophets.

Greg hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. We all hushed up as if we were waiting for an important news bulletin. “We’re going down the block to do some painting.”
“Huh?” I stared at him. “You mean work?”
“Mark, don’t be a dope.” He held up a can of black spray paint. “I ‘found’ it in the hardware store.”
We laughed. That meant that Greg had stolen the paint. I felt kind of funny in the stomach. I really didn’t like the idea. But I was new here. If I said anything, the other guys wouldn’t be my friends.
Greg led us to a house with a wooden fence around the backyard. He handed the paint to Sam.
“Wait a minute,” I blurted out.
Greg cuffed me on the side of the head. “Are you chicken?”
I snorted. “Me? Of course not.”
When Greg wasn’t looking, I rubbed my head where he’d hit me. It hurt. He’s a year older than I am, and a lot bigger.
After Sam finished, Greg and a couple of other kids did their thing. Then it was my turn. I took a deep breath and pushed the button on the can. Black paint sprayed out.
“Hey!” The shout came from an unseen person.
We took off running. Then I tripped. I jumped up, but someone grabbed my arm. My heart rate speeded up so much that I thought I’d either faint or get sick all over my new sneakers.
I peeked up at a gray-haired man wearing glasses. “What were you doing?” he asked, not loosening his grip any.
“I don’t know,” I said, though it sounded silly.
“Who gave you the right to vandalize my property?”
“Uh, I’m sorry. Are you going to call the police?” I asked. My voice shook like I was going to cry.
“I believe I’d rather keep this between me and your parents.”
I took a shaky breath, then told him my name and phone number. But I’d rather have gone to jail than have my parents know what I’d done.
Dad came over right away. He looked as though he couldn’t decide whether he was more hurt or more angry at what I’d done. I kind of shrunk down inside my shirt.
“Mark will pay for all damages, Mr. Parker,” Dad said.
I gulped hard. My allowance after tithing and savings, doesn’t cover half the stuff I want to buy. I figured that it would take a big part of my childhood years to pay for repainting that fence.
“I believe I have a better idea,” Mr. Parker said. “I’d planned to repaint it, anyway. How about if I buy the paint and Mark does the painting?”
I sagged with relief. I wasn’t looking forward to the work, but painting the fence was a lot better than paying for damages.
I wouldn’t have been so happy if I’d known what was also in store for me at home—Mom and Dad grounded me for six weeks.
“Hurting others is against the word of God,” Mr. Parker said when I went over to his place. He handed me a brush.
I shrugged. “I know.”
“You sure didn’t act like it the way you worked my fence over.”
I turned away and carefully drew the brush out of the paint can. I took my time making my first brush stroke nice and neat. I figured that if Mr. Parker saw that I could do a good job all by myself, he’d leave me alone.
Mr. Parker didn’t take the hint. In fact, he got a brush of his own and started painting too.
My hand shook. I dribbled paint onto my pants leg.
“Careful,” Mr. Parker said.
“I can’t help it—you make me nervous!” I blurted. I dug the toe of my sneaker into the ground.
“I do? Now, why is that?”
“You keep watching me as if I’m bad or something.”
“Is that so? Well, I know you’re not bad or you wouldn’t have stayed and owned up.”
“I never did anything like that before. But Greg said …” I stopped and looked away quickly. I hadn’t meant to mention anyone else.
Mr. Parker chuckled softly. “Greg must be one of the other young fellows I saw running away that day.”
“You saw them?”
“I sure did.”
“You didn’t even ask me to snitch.”
“I was a boy once myself.” Mr. Parker winked at me.
I felt a knot ease out of my shoulders. Mr. Parker was turning out to be a lot nicer than I’d figured.
We started painting again. After a while he said, “Do you ever go to church?”
“We used to.”
“I’m going to ask your folks to come with me on Sunday.”
“They’re pretty busy.”
“We’ll let them decide. I think your parents will welcome the chance for you to meet the right kind of friends.”
My face turned warm. I leaned over and concentrated on my painting. “I have friends,” I mumbled.
“Sure you do, son.”
Mr. Parker didn’t say anything else. I’d expected him to start preaching and tell me how bad my friends were—how they were not only a bad influence but how they ran off and left me. I was all set to get mad and tell him my friends were great.
But all he did was start whistling. I recognized the tune—it was a hymn.
My parents were all eager to take Mr. Parker up on his church offer. I told myself that it didn’t matter—at least I had somewhere else to go for the next six weeks. I couldn’t wait until my grounding was over and I could see Greg and the other guys again.
The only thing was, I got busy with the kids from Primary. By the time the six weeks were up, I was involved in a ward project to get books for a shelter for the homeless. After that, we Blazers all got parts in a play that we were going to put on at the care center.
The next time I saw Greg, he was leading his gang past the park. He stopped suddenly, and everyone piled into the back of him. They reminded me of robots playing follow the leader.
“Mark. I haven’t seen you around.”
“I … uh … I’ve been busy.” I felt a familiar shrinking in my stomach. Funny, I’d never realized it before, but I always felt that way around Greg.
“Yeah, I heard you were busy painting old man Parker’s fence.”
Greg and the robots cracked up. I clenched my fists.
“Come on—we’re doing something fun.” Greg held up a cloth sack.
I knew that they planned to steal oranges from Mr. McKellar’s grove. Six weeks ago I’d have stumbled over my own feet rushing to join them. Now all I felt was sorry for them.
“No thanks.” I turned and marched away. I had new friends now. My kind of friends. The shrinking in my stomach disappeared. It didn’t come back.

Character is revealed under pressure. Let me illustrate. A few years ago, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley related this inspiring story:

“I talked with a young man recently returned from the war. He too had walked the jungle patrols, his heart pounding with fear. But reluctantly he admitted that the greatest fear he had was the fear of ridicule.

“The men of his company laughed at him, taunted him, plastered him with a nickname that troubled him. They told him the things they reveled in. Then on one occasion when the going was rough, he faced them and quietly said, ‘Look, I know you think I’m a square. I don’t consider myself any better than any of the rest of you. … But I grew up in a different way. I grew up in a religious home and a religious town. I went to church on Sundays. We prayed together as a family. I was taught to stay away from these things. It’s just that I believe differently. With me it’s a matter of religion, and it’s kind of a way of respecting my mother and my dad. All of you together might force me toward a compromising situation, but that wouldn’t change me, and you wouldn’t feel right after you’d done it.’

“One by one they turned silently away. But during the next few days each came to ask his pardon, and from his example others gained the strength and the will to change their own lives. He taught the gospel to two of them and brought them into the church.” (Church News, 29 Apr. 1972, p. 14.)

“I’m pregnant!”
Conflicting feelings awoke in my heart as my friend shared the news with me. One half of my heart was so happy for her, truly. But on the other half, I felt a raw, biting ache that I immediately tried to push down into nonexistence.
When you don’t acknowledge pain, it’s not real, right? (Wrong!)
I wish that were the case.
This was the 10th friend of mine who had announced a pregnancy in the past few months, and trust me, I was immensely excited for them all.
However, I couldn’t help but feel deep sadness in my soul. I strive to not be a jealous person, but on this day, as someone who is living the reality of reproductive struggles, I felt I had come across one too many baby announcements. The pain in my heart overflowed.
This part of my life felt so unfair, so uncertain, and so unbelievably hard.
However, in that moment of self-pity, I remembered a source of spiritual strength I always turn to when I am feeling vexed about my circumstances:
My patriarchal blessing.
What is it about patriarchal blessings that makes them so special?
Recently, Elder Kazuhiko Yamashita of the Seventy talked about the significance of patriarchal blessings. He taught, “Your patriarchal blessing is a message from your Heavenly Father and will likely include promises and inspired counsel to guide you throughout your life.”
What a gift—seriously.
I received my blessing at 13 years old because I was struggling with some big challenges and I wanted to better connect with Heavenly Father.
And while it did bring me the connection to Him and peace I needed at that time of life, it also continues to do so today.
I have read these sacred words more times than I can count. Strangely, although the words have never changed, they have comforted and inspired my soul in different ways. Without fail, this blessing from heaven seems to say exactly what I need to hear at any moment in time.
When you read and sincerely ponder your patriarchal blessing, you truly can feel that Heavenly Father is speaking words of affirmation, assurance, and comfort to your soul.
Since I was young, I’ve had an illness that I knew would impact my ability to bring children into the world. Through a lot of prayers, temple attendance, and simply trusting the Lord, I’ve felt peace and hope about my situation many, many times.
So I was frustrated with myself for once again feeling isolated from the rest of the young expectant mothers around me.
This wasn’t my first time trying to wrangle these difficult emotions.
And like always, when I turned to the words in my patriarchal blessing for solace, I felt the Spirit’s comforting presence fill my soul.
When I read about my divine identity, I feel connected to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
When I read about my spiritual gifts, I feel empowered to face my challenges with grace and to share the light of Jesus Christ with others.
When I read about the promises the Lord has made to me, I feel a renewed sense of reassurance that He will provide my life with blessings in His time, even if I need to wait on Him.
Elder Randall K. Bennett of the Seventy recently taught, “Cherishing my patriarchal blessing while I was young blessed me with courage when I was discouraged, comfort when I was fearful, peace when I felt anxious, hope when I felt hopeless, and joy when I needed it most.”
I can say the same.
If you haven’t yet received your patriarchal blessing, I invite you to do whatever is necessary to prepare to receive it. Few things in this world have made me feel more connected to my divine identity—and to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ—than this sacred message.
If you have received your blessing, don’t take those words for granted—remember this blessing is your “personal Liahona.” Receiving a patriarchal blessing allows us to more fully realize how much our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know us individually and want to guide our lives toward joy.
Elder Yamashita also testified: “[Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ] love us. Patriarchal blessings are sacred gifts from Them. When you receive your blessing, you will realize and feel how They love you and how They focus on you individually.”
I feel the gap between myself and Them minimize every time I read my patriarchal blessing. Although it doesn’t reveal all the details about how my life will unfold, it does reveal that I can turn to Them for guidance and that I can have hope for the promised blessings I’m seeking to come into my life when the time is right.
My patriarchal blessing deepens my trust in Them, which allows me to replace the bite of unfairness and jealousy in my heart with the warmth of peace and hope.
It can do the same for you.

Tonight I have with me an old envelope. I know it’s old because the postage is only six cents, and that means it was mailed a very long time ago. On the back of this envelope are directions to a destination.

It belonged to a young couple in their twenties and newly married. They were romantic and idealistic and optimistic about their future. He was in graduate school. She taught high school to support the two of them. One bright autumn day in New England they took a picnic lunch out to Walden Pond, near Boston. For those of you who love literature, you’ll remember that Walden Pond and Henry David Thoreau go together. Like Thoreau they chose this location to think and ponder about their future. The question they had come to consider was this: What should they do with the rest of their lives?

They wanted a road map for the future. They had a new marriage. It was a promising partnership. The future stretched out before them, and they wanted to make the very most of it. They talked of what to do and where to live. They talked about the children they wanted to have. They wanted to develop talents and share what they had been given. They wanted the world to be better because they had lived in it. They wanted to serve God always.

They were goal setters, so after a very philosophical afternoon and lots of discussion, they wrote down on the back of an envelope a list of goals and hopes and dreams that they intended would set the tone for the rest of their lives together. They drove away from that beautiful, serene setting with hope and optimism and the envelope.

The practical, routine, daily things of life took over. The envelope was soon forgotten. They got caught up in life. They prayed often and worked hard, and they served others. They started their family and finished graduate school. He worked at his career. She worked at being a young mother. They served—both in their Church and in the community. They had more children. Life got busier and busier. They didn’t think about their Walden Pond envelope much at all. Things weren’t so philosophical anymore, but they were happy. They were very happy. They just kept trying, with each choice they made, to see which path God wanted them to take.

Many years passed. They faced trials—some of them were very hard ones. There were a variety of challenges—some of them could have broken their spirits. They were middle-aged, and they plucked gray hairs and watched their waistlines expand. They moved to a new city, where the husband was hired for a very responsible job.

One day, in the process of the move, she found among some long-forgotten papers the Walden Pond envelope. It was old and yellowed. On the back was the list of goals made by the young newlywed couple so many, many years before.

As she read down the list, tears came to her eyes. The years since they had spent that long-ago afternoon at Walden Pond flashed by. As her eyes focused on each item, she realized that most of the goals on the list had come to pass. Interestingly enough, her husband’s new job was the fulfillment of the final notation they had made at Walden Pond. It was time now to get a new envelope and make a new list.

We won the championship after a very interesting playoff game. I drew the assignment to pitch. In the top of the eighth inning the score was nothing to nothing. The first batter against me singled sharply to right field and took second on a fielder’s choice. Have you got the picture? One out, winning run on second. The batter I was now facing hit .326 for the season. I worked him to a two-two count. He fouled several pitches and then I got the ball too close to the center—a horrible mistake.

He singled sharply to left center and the ball went out there like a bullet, hit the ground on one bounce, and went to the center fielder. Normally that would score a runner from second very easily, but the ball carried such velocity I am sure the runner did not understand it. We had a great center fielder; he took the ball on one hop, threw a perfect strike to the plate, and caught the runner by a good six inches. The umpire hollered, “You’re out!” This man got up—and I had never heard such foul language in my life. I was back behind the catcher by this time, the normal position for the pitcher on a throw to the plate.

The umpire bellowed, “You’re out of the game! Out!” And he ejected him, which he should have. As I was walking back to the mound, the umpire—not a Mormon—about ready to replace his mask, turned to me and said, “Paul, forgive him; he doesn’t understand.” How grateful I am to be a Latter-day Saint.

I drive an old car that lacked an interior dome light when I bought it. During the day the missing light didn’t matter, but at night I always felt a little nervous getting into my car in the dark. If I needed to follow written directions, I had to pull over under a streetlight. If I dropped anything, it was difficult to find. Having no interior light was inconvenient, but I got used to it.
When a friend returned my car after borrowing it, I discovered she had installed a new light. She told me the bulb had cost less than a dollar and took about a minute to install. It was wonderful! How had I ever lived without it?
During the next few weeks, I realized that finally having an interior car light was like finally having spiritual light. I had thought my life was okay the way it was, but in reality I was suffering from lack of spiritual light. My fear of entering a dark car reminded me of my fear of dying without having repented. Looking for streetlights so I could read instructions was like having gospel conversations with trusted friends—but I couldn’t always rely on borrowed light. Losing items in the dark was like forgetting gospel principles, which happens easily without the light of the Spirit. I was still able to drive my car and get through life without the light, but I was missing out on blessings of peace, guidance, and understanding. All it took to start bringing back the light was repentance—a process that began when I saw the bishop and started attending church again.

Eritai says he feels happy and accomplished after overseeing the construction of a solar-powered Church building and missionary housing in Tabonibara, North Tarawa.
“I have never done anything as critical as this,” Eritai explained.
He told of answers to many prayers during the construction. He found it remarkable the way “every detail of the plans came together, and they were able to finish it so quickly despite setbacks with construction and weather.”

Usually I loved the music, activities, and excitement that accompanied the holiday season, but this season was different because our family had moved to a new town. I knew we needed to be there at that time, but I felt uncomfortable and out of place.
I voiced my discontent to my husband, Rob. We had moved several times since our marriage, and he knew I had trouble with feelings of insecurity. Rob asked me, “Do you realize how much Heavenly Father loves you?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“But,” Rob persisted, “do you feel in your heart that He loves you?”
Tears came as I realized that I did not. For as long as I could remember, I had felt that I was less than everyone else. Rob challenged me to pray and ask Heavenly Father to let me feel His love for me. That night I did so.
A couple days later I went grocery shopping. In addition to purchasing the usual items, I had planned to buy some ground beef and a roast. I realized, however, that we did not have enough money to afford the meat. It would be another week before we had any money. We also needed fuel for the car so we could travel to an out-of-town family party.
We weren’t destitute, but I prayed about our situation, telling Heavenly Father that it would be nice if we could somehow buy the needed items.
The next evening as I was preparing dinner, the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, the only thing I found on the doorstep was a large paper grocery sack. I reached down to pick it up and saw a $20 bill stapled to the top of the folded-down sack, with “Merry Christmas!” written in crayon across the front.
Inside the sack were several packages of frozen ground beef, as well as a couple packages of steaks. I was dumbfounded. I had told no one that we were out of money until our next check, not even my husband. How could someone be so sensitive to the Spirit that he or she gave us not only the meat we needed but also almost the exact amount of money it took to fill up our car? During fast and testimony meeting, I expressed gratitude for the gifts, hoping that the person responsible was there.
This experience was a turning point for me. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. He did love me, He knew my needs, and He let me know by showing me. Since then I have sought to improve my ability to hear the whisperings of the Spirit. I often pray now that I might be an instrument in answering someone else’s prayer.

December 17, 2024, began like any other day in Port Vila, Vanuatu. The city was alive with holiday preparations, and I was at work in a popular clothing store, helping customers and wrapping gifts. Then, without warning, the ground beneath us shook violently.
As a 26-year-old returned missionary, currently serving in the stake Primary, I had faced many faith-strengthening trials before—but nothing could have prepared me for this. Yet, in that moment of sudden chaos, I wasn’t afraid. I distinctly heard a still, small voice tell me, “Jane, you will be OK.”
What began as a small tremor escalated into a powerful earthquake. Instinctively, people ran for safety, but before I could reach the exit, I was struck on the shoulder by a falling TV screen. I fell to the floor as darkness engulfed me.
For a moment, panic threatened to overtake me, but a quiet, reassuring feeling filled my heart. Though I was trapped, I knew I was not alone. A minute later the still, small voice said, “Turn yourself around!” As I turned my body around, I found that my hands were OK, my head was OK, and nothing on my body was injured. I could sit up a little but not stand because of a heavy wall on top of me.
Somewhere nearby, I heard the voices of a woman and her son, also caught beneath the rubble. We spoke to each other, reassuring one another that help would come. They had a phone, but reaching anyone was difficult as networks were down. Hours passed as we waited, unable to move, listening to the distant sounds of sirens and the murmurs of people working above us. I prayed, trusting that my Heavenly Father knew where I was and that He would send help.
As night fell, an unexpected blessing came—fresh air. Despite being buried beneath the collapsed building, we could still breathe deeply, and I felt a quiet peace settle over me. Though the situation was dire, I knew in my heart that God was aware of us.
Early the next morning, we heard voices above us. Rescue teams had arrived. The young man trapped with his mother called out, and soon the rescuers responded. One by one, they carefully worked to clear a path, bringing first his mother to safety and then him. Before leaving, the rescuers promised to return for me. I watched as the last bit of light from their escape route faded, and for the first time since the earthquake, I was alone.
Minutes turned to hours, and again I prayed. I reflected on the blessings of my life: the love of my family, the strength I had gained from serving a mission, and the covenants I had made with my Heavenly Father. In that quiet, sacred space, I felt an overwhelming assurance that I was in His hands.
Finally, a rescuer called my name. “Sister Jane, can you see my light?” I turned my head and saw a small beam of light piercing the darkness. “Yes!” I called back, tears welling in my eyes.
The rescue team worked carefully. They reassured me that they would proceed cautiously to avoid further collapse. I knew their work was dangerous, and I silently prayed for their protection as well as mine. Piece by piece, they cleared the rubble until they reached me. As strong arms lifted me into the light, I was overwhelmed by the sight of so many people waiting—cheering, crying, praying. Then I heard the voice I longed for most. “Jane, Mommy is here.” My mother’s arms wrapped around me, and I knew I was home.
After 27 hours trapped beneath a collapsed building, I emerged without injury. My heart swelled with gratitude—not just for my physical safety but for the undeniable presence of God in my life. Through prayer and faith, I was strengthened, comforted, and ultimately delivered.
I am grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ, for the power of prayer, and for the knowledge that no matter how dark our trials may seem, His light will always find us.

Grudges, if left to fester, can become serious maladies. Like a painful ailment they can absorb all of our time and attention. Guy de Maupassant has written an interesting chronicle that illustrates this.

It concerns Master Hauchecome, who on market day went to town. He was afflicted with rheumatism, and as he stumbled along he noticed a piece of string on the ground in front of him. He picked it up and carefully put it in his pocket. He was seen doing so by his enemy, the harness maker.

At the same time it was reported to the mayor that a pocketbook containing money had been lost. It was assumed that what Hauchecome had picked up was the pocketbook, and he was accused of taking it. He vehemently denied the charge. A search of his clothing disclosed only the piece of string, but the slander against him had so troubled him that he became obsessed with it. Wherever he went he bothered to tell people about it. He became such a nuisance that they cried out against him. It sickened him.

“His mind kept growing weaker and about the end of December he took to his bed.
“He passed away early in January, and, in the ravings of [his] death agony, he protested his innocence, repeating:
“‘A little [piece] of string—a little [piece] of string. See, here it is, [Mister Mayor.]’” (See “The Piece of String,” http://www.online-literature.com/Maupassant/270/.)

In ninth grade, Tami had a friend who was good at everything. Tami’s friend, Sandy, was popular. She ran track and won. Tami joined the track team just to be like Sandy. But Tami never won a race. Usually she came in last. Sandy could tell a joke. And boys liked Sandy.
Just before Christmas, the school announced a writing contest. Tami decided to enter. She spent her evenings writing her poem instead of talking with Sandy on the phone as she usually did. She worried about entering the contest. It wasn’t the kind of thing Sandy would do. Tami didn’t even tell her friend she was doing it. Sandy might laugh, or maybe even make fun of her. But it was thrilling to find how much she liked writing. When the results were announced, Tami’s poem won second place.
Encouraging herself to try something on her own wasn’t easy. But Tami discovered something—deciding for herself what she wanted made her happier than trying to imitate her friends. It gave her strength to make more decisions on her own.
In the next few years, as some of her friends began making choices that were against Tami’s standards, it was easier to make her own choices, even when they were less popular.

As we sat in sacrament meeting one Sunday morning, our bishop asked the members of our ward to give a more generous fast offering. My husband and I were newlyweds struggling to make ends meet while he completed his education. Shouldn’t wealthy ward members be the ones to increase their fast offerings?
The bishop promised ward members they would experience miracles in their lives if they doubled their fast offerings. Despite my concerns, the Spirit confirmed to me that his promise was true.
Trembling as I wrote our fast offering check the following week, I doubled the amount. “We’re going to starve,” I said to myself as I sealed the envelope.
A few days later as I got into my car to drive to work, the red warning light came on for the oil. I added oil, but it leaked from the engine as quickly as I poured it in. When I called our mechanic, he told me to drive straight to his shop. Holding back tears, I drove a few miles to his repair shop and silently said a prayer.
The mechanic warned that the repair would probably be expensive but had to be done. He also pointed out that it was almost time to replace the car’s timing belt—another expense we couldn’t afford. I left the car at the shop and went to work devastated.
Later, when the mechanic called, he was upbeat and excited. “Of course he is,” I thought. “He’s about to make a ton of money off of us.”
Actually, he called to share an amazing story. As he was working on our car, a friend happened by his auto shop. This friend, who works at a dealership that services my make of car, asked our mechanic what he was working on. When our mechanic explained the problem, his friend said, “Well, you know there’s a recall for that problem. It’s covered by the automaker.”
I couldn’t believe it! Then our mechanic explained that oil had gotten all over the engine, so the automaker would also cover the replacement of the timing belt and other belts!
Tears of gratitude sprang from my eyes as I recognized the blessing we had received from the Lord. I felt overwhelmed by His love and embarrassed by my lack of faith.
I haven’t had perfect faith since this incident a few years ago, but I know that the Lord is acutely aware of our needs and struggles. I know He loves us and wants to help us. I also know that Heavenly Father will test us and not always answer our prayers as quickly as He did in this instance.
Most important, I have a testimony of the blessings we can receive by paying a generous fast offering and of the blessings others receive as a result of our generosity.