Gospel Story Finder

Doesn’t your heart thrill as you recall the history of Relief Society and remember our very exciting beginnings? On March 17, 1842, at the first Relief Society meeting, the Prophet Joseph Smith declared that “the Church was never perfectly organized until the women were thus organized.” He then organized the sisters “under the priesthood after the pattern of the priesthood.” The small, diverse group of women assembled at that first Relief Society were dedicated women, similar to Relief Society members today. There were young women and older women, women who were formally educated and women with no formal education. There were married women, mothers, and single women. There were wealthy women and some who were very poor. They each had a love for one another, a love for the Lord, and a desire to serve. By remembering what Relief Society sisters did in the past, we can better understand and be guided today.
At the first Relief Society meeting, the sisters were asked by Joseph Smith to assist the Brethren “in looking to the wants of the poor—searching after objects of charity, and in administering to their wants.” He further admonished the sisters to act “according to those sympathies which God has planted in your bosoms.”
The sisters took this charge to heart and became a society dedicated to serving the poor and needy. Sister Emma Smith said, “We are going to do something extraordinary. When a boat is stuck on the rapids, with a multitude of Mormons on board we shall consider that a loud call for relief. We expect extraordinary occasions and pressing calls.”
In the early days of the Church, sisters provided relief as they went from house to house. Doing what we now call visiting teaching, the sisters went about ministering to all—caring for and attending to the needs of others and ensuring that people had food, clothing, shelter and providing relief when needed. If a sister had something to share, she would contribute it to the visiting sisters. If she was in need, the sisters would help provide for her.

Sister Boyer: All women, whatever their situations, can perform service in their homes. For example, our general secretary has not had children of her own. But she loves and serves the children of others. In fact, while we are talking here, she’s taking care of a niece and her niece’s brand new baby and three-year-old son. As long as we are thinking “What can I do for someone else?” we are on the right track. And the woman living alone can come to appreciate the great blessings she does have.

I was not feeling the Christmas spirit. It was December of my senior year in high school, and college applications and my final Laurel project loomed before me. I hoped to find a volunteer opportunity that would flesh out my college applications and double as my Laurel project. Luckily my student council adviser asked my friend Jessica and me if we would organize a school toy drive for a local charity.
I delegated most of the work to the project committee. I had them create a bulletin board featuring a large thermometer that indicated the number of toys donated. We thought that was enough advertising, and we spent each lunch period collecting donations. Students donated few toys, however, and the thermometer remained low.
Strangely, our adviser began setting aside some toys. When Jessica and I asked what she planned to do with them, she told us that a teacher at the school had recently been diagnosed with cancer. After struggling to teach while going through treatment, he had decided to take a leave from work. With the holidays approaching and medical bills piling up, his family wouldn’t have much of a Christmas. Our adviser suggested that we wrap the set-aside presents for them.
My heart was touched. I had been looking at my service project as a means to serve only myself, not others. I decided to triple our goal for donated toys and to start a monetary collection for the teacher and his family.
Jessica and I visited classrooms and championed our cause. The response was enormous. Teachers, staff, and students gave toys and money to help the family. We soon surpassed our toy goal, which amazed the charity. We also collected more than $1,000 for the family.
As we carefully wrapped the gifts we had collected and purchased, I realized that the testimony of service I was receiving was just as great as the gifts we were giving. I can’t express the thrill I felt as we secretly watched the family discover the gifts we had anonymously left on their porch.
A few months later, Jessica and I were asked to teach a seminar on service projects. We explained what we had done without mentioning the teacher’s name. A girl raised her hand and stood. Tears flowed as she spoke. The teacher was her uncle, and she described how much our service had meant to him. She said it was an answer to his prayers.
What a joy it was that holiday season to come together in heartfelt service and know we had made a difference.

Though his memory shines especially bright during this Bicentennial year, Abraham Lincoln had lost some of his luster for citizens in Spokane, Washington. It seems the city’s statue of the nation’s 16th president needed a facelift after prolonged exposure to the rainy northwest climate. It was the Explorers of the Spokane First Ward who provided the manpower to clean up the statue.
Accepting President Kimball’s challenge that each American devote 24 hours of service to his community, the Explorers scrubbed the statue with a vinegar solution and polished it up with naval jelly.
It was a great birthday present to the country, and both the Explorers and Abe have reason to stand tall.

My name is Sarah. I live in the small town of Nauvoo, Illinois, on the edge of a big river. The Prophet Joseph Smith and early Church members lived in this city in the 1840s. The beautiful temple they built here was later destroyed and has recently been rebuilt.

In a school yard game young boys form a circle, and one hits another on the shoulder and says, “Pass it on.” The one who receives the blow transmits it to the next in line and says, “Pass it on.” The third promptly punches a fourth, and so on, as each in succession, by “passing it on,” tries to rid himself of his pain, and the responsibility for it, by inflicting it on another.

The first coordinating councilwide Church History Fair in Africa West Area was held on 16 December 2023 in Port Harcourt. Elder Enefiok Ntem, chairman of Port Harcourt Council of 10 stakes and 2 districts, presided over this special activity of 3,075 people who gathered at the Dr. Obi Wali International Conference Centre. Many more participants watched through Facebook streaming. This may be one of the largest face-to-face gatherings of people in a single activity recorded in our entire area. Similar Church history fairs and devotionals, though on smaller scales, have been held across the area in Uyo Ibiono Nigeria Stake, Ghana, Benin Republic and Ivory Coast.
The extensive planning and successful fair could only be possible with a group of Saints who are phenomenally united and whose faith is founded in the gospel of Jesus Christ. As Sister Ihesiene and I served in the organizing committee of this fair, we could feel the power of a humble and accessible council chairman, Elder Enefiok Ntem, and the joy of counseling together in love. Every Church department was involved and displayed items at their stands during guided tours by our invitees. The young single adults played the instruments; the different organizations provided choir renditions and cultural displays as well as the “Light the World” segment.
The Nigeria and council history timelines were displayed, pioneers were honored and oral interviews were conducted across every segment of the participants. We had the honor of hosting first-class opinion leaders as the traditional rulers, religious leaders and government functionaries spanning Nigeria’s southern states of Bayelsa, Akwa Ibom and Rivers. It is true to say that the committees had the Africa West Area goals as templates in ensuring the Area Presidency’s outlook got reflected—from strengthening the rising generation to inter-governmental and religious collaborations. It was a day never to be forgotten as most of the invitees during their goodwill messages wished this to become an annual event with promise that their constituents will attend in larger numbers.
The Church History department collects, preserves and shares the stories of the hand of the Lord amongst His people. We collect annual and oral histories, artifacts, digitize personal journals, identify and operate historic sites for the Church. Indeed, we were humbled to see Saints in Port Harcourt Council gather to confess what the almighty hand of the Lord has done from 1990, when the first stake in this council was created, till now. “And Jesus said unto them: How be it that ye have not written this thing, that many saints did arise and appear unto many and did minister unto them?” (3 Nephi 23:11).
We solemnly testify that everyone was ministered to during this special and historic Church history event in Port Harcourt. In verse 13, the Saviour insisted: “And it came to pass that Jesus commanded that it should be written; therefore it was written according as he commanded” (3 Nephi 23:13). And now, it has been written.

As a boy, I loved to run. When I was eleven years old, I won an Oregon state cross-country race and I vowed to become a national champion before I graduated from high school. Full of boldness, determined to be better than anyone else, I began a training routine that was to last for years. Every day I ran from five to sixteen kilometers. I loved training. Neither mud, rain, sweat, nor pain were to keep me from my goal. “You only get out of it what you put into it” became my motto.
I began to look ahead to running in the Junior Olympics. My plan was to prepare to race in the 1985 competition, when I would be fourteen years old, and again in 1987, when I would be sixteen. I calculated that these would be in my best years and I would be in my top running condition. What I didn’t calculate was that by 1985 I would grow from a skinny, lightweight boy, to a taller and heavier young man. My whole system had to catch up with the added dimensions of my growing body. My knees ached constantly; my feet and hips almost cried out in pain as I ran; and it was all I could do to win a state championship by a fraction of a second. I knew 1985 wasn’t the year to enter the Junior Olympics, but I would have two years to prepare myself for the 1987 event.
By the spring of 1987 I was running well. I was undefeated in the 1,500-meter run and praised by a local newspaper as the fastest high school freshman in the state of Oregon. My aches and pains had gone. I felt good and I knew I was ready for the Junior Olympics.
Meanwhile, three teammates and I had been invited to participate in a prestigious regional track meet. Full of confidence and in high spirits, we got into the team van with our coach for the ride to the meet.
As we drove onto the main highway, I noticed how congested the traffic was and subconsciously fastened my seat belt. We were all laughing and joking when I casually looked up and noticed a speeding car coming our way. Completely out of control, it began swerving back and forth in our traffic lane, barely avoiding several cars ahead. Stunned into silence, we helplessly watched the car head straight for us.
I awoke to the sounds of screaming sirens, two-way radios crackling, and shouting policemen. We had been hit head-on by a car driven by a wanted man in a stolen car who was being pursued by police in a high-speed chase. My teammate and good friend, Lenny, who was in the seat behind me without his seat belt on, had been thrown across my seat. I had been propelled forward and pinned under the weight of his unconscious body and my doubled-up seat.
I managed to move just enough to see out of the window. The other car looked like a crumpled piece of paper. Two ambulances drove in beside our crushed van, and I was quickly, but very carefully, lifted out of our wrecked vehicle. “I think this one has a broken back!” I heard one ambulance man say as he looked at me with pity and concern.
As miracles go, my back wasn’t broken—just my nose! However, serious back strain, several pulled muscles, and joint displacement prevented me from walking for a few days and kept me from running normally for several months. This had not been in my plan. I became discouraged as my training schedule for being in top condition was once again interrupted.
I continued to train, both with the high school team and with a running club my brothers and sisters and I belong to. As I watched my ten-year-old brother, Tyler, run, I began to feel more frustration and irritation. He ran strong and well. He could keep up with several of the high school runners and was getting better every week. As much as I loved him, I resented how easy it all seemed for him.
I watched Tyler win in a state track and field championship, defeating his nearest competition by 500 meters. A crowd of excited supporters gathered around him as I stood back. An incredible sense of pride built up inside me, and as Tyler looked past all the well-wishers, seeking my approval, the feeling of love was so intense between us that I felt we were the only two in the noisy stadium. As I sensed his deep need for my approval my resentment of his success totally left me. At that moment, I vowed that my little brother would go to the national championships prepared with all the knowledge I could share and with the assurance of my support.
We ran together after that. I talked about form and strategy, how to pass other runners and maintain a lead. We ran up hills to build his endurance, sprinted on the track to build his speed, and made up all sorts of exercises to improve his reflexes. We talked about racing as we did chores around the house, as we ate breakfast, as we drove into town, and as we watched sports news on television. We ran in pouring rain and sweltering heat.
Tyler and I both placed first in our age categories in the Northwest Regional Championships, and that gave us the chance to compete in the national championships. Because of the accident and the interruption of my training, I thought I might only place in the top twenty-five runners. My race was first, and I was twenty-first out of 300 and gained a national ranking.
Satisfied and happy with my performance, I then turned my attention to Tyler. I had already taken him through the cross-country course, showing him how to approach and hurdle a deep ditch, when to stride out, where to save his strength, what to avoid, and how to stay mentally tough. He wa ready! As we looked for his starting place among the other 265 runners on the starting line, I felt as nervous as when I had lined up for my own race. Tyler was tense, and I just kept assuring him that he was the best. I could sense his apprehension as if it were my own. How I wished I could transform his pain to joy! “Be tough, Tyler. Just remember, no one is better than you. No one can beat you,” I said. My arm slipped around his slumping shoulder, and I felt like I was deserting a desperate man when I walked away and noticed the tears in his eyes.
I watched him run a perfect race as I ran from place to place on the course to cheer him on, hoping he could feel my support reaching out to him. Could he hear? Could he sense my strength reaching out to him? He came toward the last stretch of the race in second place. “Keep going, Tyler!” I yelled. “Use your arms! Breathe deeply!” If he could just feel what I felt for him in that crowd of 5,000 wildly screaming spectators.
He was turning the corner for the last 100 meters—a part of the course we had run over and over together as we planned this moment. “Now Tyler! Give it all you’ve got left! Come on!” I pleaded. My voice choked as I thrilled at the sight of my little brother, a picture of perfect health, striding down the homestretch to a spectacular finish to become the national champion I had planned to be.
My pride in him told me that I had won something too. I realized I had given part of myself away to help Tyler succeed, and it created a feeling within me far richer and more powerful than I could have ever imagined. As an exhausted Tyler broke away from the crowd and came to me, he gasped out the words which taught me the lesson of my life.
“Jason, I felt terrible—but I could hear you cheering the whole way, over the noise of all the people, and I knew I could win. I knew I had to win!”
What other lessons would this little champion learn from me—good or bad?
What about all our other brothers and sisters in the family of men. What messages do they hear above the crowd? Just as Tyler could hear and respond to that call to win, how many others need that voice in the crowd? How often do we get caught up in our own plans and fail to call out our encouragement, fail to cheer others on to victory?
As Tyler and I embraced, I truly knew the meaning of the words, “He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him” (1 Jn. 2:10).

I had never been in Colorado before. It laid out the black ice for me. People say that in near-death situations, your life flashes before your eyes. I don’t believe it after my experience. Maria and I were in a blue Tracker going 65 miles per hour down the highway to Golden. We were on our way to visit her family and attend a wedding rehearsal. Maria was back in her hometown, back where she was a gymnast, a basketball player, and a choir girl. She was driving.
We hit black ice. I heard her gasp, and a scream got caught somewhere in her throat. We skidded across three lanes. I didn’t see my life flashing. In fact, I don’t think I saw anything except the large cement divider getting closer. I didn’t think to do any last-minute repenting. I didn’t think any great memorable thoughts. I think “this is going to really hurt” was the only thing going through my mind.
We hit the cement median, demolishing the front end of the car. It felt like a roller coaster to my midsection and a shot to the head. Fortunately, we were both wearing our seat belts.
I looked back over at Maria. “Are you all right?”
Her eyes were wide, and she was breathing heavily. “Yeah. My leg hurts a little though, and my chest.” I undid my seat belt and checked her leg. I couldn’t see anything wrong from where I was. I wanted to check the other side. I got out of the car and circled to her door. Everything looked all right.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Maria repeated, half to herself and half to me.
“Don’t worry about it.” I hugged her. “I’m sure you set up the ice to show me how exciting Colorado could be.” Sarcastic humor. I guess that was my way of dealing with the trauma.
“I’m sorry.”
A policeman was already up the road from an earlier accident. He threw his car in reverse and backed down the cement space to the side of the highway. By now a very slow lane of traffic started passing between me and him.
He tried to say something, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of traffic. I started to walk up the street a little where I thought I could cross.
SMACK! The sound came from behind me. I whirled around. Two cars were spinning out of control toward me. I jumped against the cement median. The cars passed by. I felt one brush the back of my shirt. I was terrified.
That was the closest I had ever come to death. I stood in the same place, not thinking, not moving, just scared. It took me a few seconds before I realized that the car I had left Maria in was now spun around. One of the out-of-control cars must have hit it. I didn’t see Maria in the driver’s seat where I had left her.
I ran down the road and yanked the door open. Nothing. “Maria!” I was screaming. I couldn’t find her. If there was anything scaring me more than almost dying, it was losing my friend. My eyes and mind raced everywhere. She wasn’t in the other seat. Not in the back. Not on the ground in front of me. Nowhere.
I heard a muffled cry. It sounded like it was coming from beneath the car. I checked. Nothing. I ran around the car. Maria was lying on the road with her head up against the median. One of the cars had run into the Tracker and knocked Maria through the side window and onto the road.
The paramedics strapped Maria to a stretcher, and we both went in the ambulance. I called her parents when we got to the emergency room. They hurried to the hospital. After Maria had a few X rays and spent a few hours in the emergency room, the doctors said that despite the whiplash and the large bruise from the seat belt, she was fine. I escaped with a sore neck and a scar on my leg.
It’s a great thing to be alive. I thanked the Lord for the chance to live, the chance to try a little more, a chance to go to college, a chance to get married, a chance at my dreams, a chance at playing the guitar, a chance to hang out with my brothers, a chance to write a story, a chance for everything.

President Marion G. Romney understood this. Years ago he started a daily procedure, which he recommended to us, of reading the Book of Mormon each morning for thirty minutes. “I know that it kept me in harmony,” he said, “so far as I did keep in harmony, with the Spirit of the Lord.” Then he added, “It will hold us as close to the Spirit of the Lord as anything I know.” (In Conference Report, Apr. 1949, pp. 36, 41.)

While serving as full-time missionaries in Chile, my companions and I had several opportunities to give priesthood blessings. On one occasion, after pronouncing a blessing on a single mother suffering from cancer, we expressed our appreciation for the opportunity of blessing her. Her response surprised us. She exclaimed, “Elders, you are the real blessing.” She continued, “Having worthy priesthood men in my home is the greatest blessing of all.”
As we thought about her comments, we recognized that God really does bless His children through righteous priesthood holders. If we hadn’t been there, ready to fulfill our priesthood duty, she could not have received the blessing we provided. We learned that fulfilling our duty to God meant living worthy to bless and serve others.

A mother of four knelt with her family around their kitchen table and prayed for help in paying their assessment. That evening she received a phone call from a neighbor lady, asking if she would tend her small children on a regular basis. Some six weeks earlier the sister’s offer to tend these same children had been refused because her fee was too high. The neighbor explained that she had been strongly impressed that afternoon that this sister would provide the most loving care of any person she had considered, and this was worth whatever fee the member wanted to charge.

I remember my dear father when he was about the age that I am now. He lived in a home where there was a rock wall on the grounds. It was a low wall, and when the weather was warm, he would go and sit on his wall. It seemed to me he sat there for hours, thinking, meditating, pondering things that he would say and write, for he was a very gifted speaker and writer. He read much, even into his very old age. He never ceased growing. Life was for him a great adventure in thinking.

When I was about to go on a mission, I worried about the same things that today worry the young men and young women who will also serve missions. I worried about work, my girlfriend, school, and family. When I was old enough to go on a mission, my father was almost sixty-six years old, and I thought, My father is old, and if I leave for two years, he may die and I will not see him anymore. Who will take care of my mother? She will be all alone when he is no longer at her side.

May I tell you that I served two years in the mission, I served in the Church schools in Chile for five years, I served as a mission president for three years, as a Regional Representative for six years, and my father is still here at the head of the family. He was born a month after President Benson, so last month he turned ninety-three years old.

I testify that when we serve the Lord with all of our heart, might, mind, and strength, he blesses us.

During the exodus of the Latter-day Saints from Missouri, ordered by Governor Lilburn W. Boggs, a man taunted Eliza R. Snow, saying, “Well, I think this will cure you of your faith.” She retorted, “No, sir, it will take more than this to cure me of my faith.” He humbly responded, “I must confess you are a better soldier than I am.” Later Eliza would write, “I passed on, thinking that, unless he was above the average of his fellows in that section, I was not complimented by his confession.”

I sat in church one Sunday, angry and frustrated. My husband, Aaron, and I had had a disagreement the night before, and I came to church still feeling unsettled and upset. I stayed mad at Aaron through the beginning of the meeting to the sacrament hymn, thinking, “He needs to say he’s sorry.”

As we prepared to take the sacrament, our congregation sang the hymn “As Now We Take the Sacrament.” I stayed mad through the first verse. Then the second verse began: “As now our minds review the past, we know we must repent.”

I stopped singing. I listened to my husband, children, and ward members continue to sing: “The way to thee is righteousness—the way thy life was spent.”

My heart softened. Maybe my unsettled feeling was not about my husband after all. Maybe it was about me.

The hymn continued:
Forgiveness is a gift from thee
We seek with pure intent.
With hands now pledged to do thy work,
We take the sacrament.

There I was being upset, when I actually needed to be humble and seek forgiveness from Heavenly Father—a gift made possible by His Son, Jesus Christ.

I teared up as I looked down the row at our little children. All the anger and tension I had felt, all the blame and resentment that had been making the knot in my chest, dissipated. This moment was about what I needed to do to change so I could seek and receive forgiveness from my Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Through a hymn, the Spirit taught me clearly about forgiveness and my need to both receive it and give it.

President Russell M. Nelson has said: “I plead with you to come unto Him so that He can heal you! He will heal you from sin as you repent. He will heal you from sadness and fear. He will heal you from the wounds of this world.”

Sitting there, listening to the words of the hymn and partaking of the sacrament, I felt my need for healing, and I knew where I needed to turn. The truths I learned about forgiveness during that meeting brought me closer to the Lord and to my husband.

Many years ago I had the opportunity of witnessing a state championship high school track meet at Brigham Young University. The lesson I learned as I watched the mile run was most impressive. I know I shall never forget it. About a dozen young men had qualified to represent their schools. The starting gun was fired, and these young men who had trained so long and so hard took off. Four fellows, closely bunched together, took the early lead. Suddenly the runner in second place spiked the first runner’s foot with his shoe. As the leader was about to make the next stride forward, he found that he was without a shoe.
As I noticed this, I wondered what the leader would do because of what his competitor had unintentionally done to him. It seemed to me he had a number of choices. He could take a few extra quick sprints and catch up to the fellow who had put him out of first position, double up his fist, and hit him to get even. He could run over to the coach and say, “This is what you get—I have trained all my life for this big day, and now look what’s happened!” He could run off into the stands and say to his mother, father, or girlfriend, “Isn’t this horrible?” Or he could sit down on the track and cry. But to my pleasure, he did none of these things. He just kept running.
This was halfway around the first lap, and I thought to myself, “Good for him; he’ll finish this first lap of the four and retire gracefully.” But after he had completed the first lap, he just kept running. He completed the second lap, then the third lap—and every time he took a stride, cinders were coming up through his stocking, hurting his foot. They ran on cinder tracks in those days. But he didn’t quit. He just kept running.
I thought, “What an outstanding display of courage and self-discipline! What parents! What a coach! What leaders who have affected his life enough so that in a situation like this he would not stop running!” He finished the job he had to do. He did not place first, but he was a real winner. When I walked over to him at the completion of the race and congratulated him on his courageous performance, he was composed and in complete control. He was able to carry on when it would have been much easier to quit.

President Thomas S. Monson
By expressing love in his weekly letters, a full-time missionary brings his father into the Church.

In October 1980 I was riding my bicycle when I suddenly realized my foot brake was not working. I panicked, not knowing when or how I would be able to stop. When my wild ride ended and I finally coasted safely to a stop, I ended up next to Rodico Flores, a good friend and high school classmate. I explained what had happened, and then we chatted for a little while. During our conversation, he asked if I had time to come to his church. Since I knew he was a good person and I admired the other Latter-day Saints I knew, I decided to go the next Sunday.

Martín felt sad when his parents told him the family was moving to a different city in Colombia. He didn’t want to leave his friends, his home, and the place he grew up in. Instead of cool mountain air, Martín would now live close to the ocean with hot, humid air all year round. He would trade hot soups for cold drinks, and coats for shorts. Add to that a new school, a new ward, and a new Primary class. It all seemed pretty scary.
One day Mom and Dad asked Martín how he felt about the move.
“I don’t like it,” Martín said. “I don’t want everything to change.”
“I know moving can be hard,” Dad said. “Lots of things will change, but not everything. You’ll still have us!”
“That’s true,” Martín said.
“And you will still have your things,” Mom said.
Martín thought about that for a minute. He would still have his clothes, his shoes, and other things he was familiar with at his old house—especially his toys. Martín was glad he could take his favorite toys. He packed them away extra carefully when they moved.
After a while, Martín started to get used to his new home and new city. He was glad the move wasn’t as hard or scary as he thought it would be.
Then one Sunday, when his family went to church, Martín noticed a lot of people he had never seen before. Primary was full of new kids. He wondered where they came from. He heard people he knew talk about donating food, clothes, and shoes. After church, Martín asked Mom about all the new people.
“They had to leave their country,” Mom said. “Many of them left everything behind, so now they don’t have anything.”
“So that’s why everyone wants to help them?” Martín asked.
“That’s right. Jesus taught us that we should help people who are in need. We can follow His example and share what we have.”
Martín thought that would be a nice thing to do.
Then Mom said, “Many of the Primary kids only have what they could fit in a backpack. They had to leave their toys behind. Do you think you have some toys you could give?”
“No! Those are my toys!” Martín said. He turned and ran to his room.
Martín looked around his room with tears in his eyes. He didn’t want to give away his toys. He’d brought them all the way from his old house!
He went to his toy box and looked inside. He saw his toy truck, his yo-yo, his trompo (spinning top), his best bag of marbles, and lots of his other favorite toys. He liked them all. He couldn’t give any of them away!
Then Martín thought, “What if I had to leave my home and my favorite toys behind?”
A few minutes later, he came up to Mom with his arms full of toys—not just any old toys—but the ones he always played with.
Mom looked surprised. “You don’t have to give away your favorite toys.”
Martín set the toys on the floor. “The other kids had favorite toys too,” he said. “I want them to have mine so they can be a little happier.”
Mom gave Martín a hug. “I’m so proud of you.”
Martín had a warm feeling inside. He knew giving to others is what Jesus would do, and that made him happy.