Gospel Story Finder

The gospel message seemed familiar to her, and she continued to receive the missionaries when she moved from Helsinki to Kuopio. But when the missionaries told her that they intended to baptize her, she asked them to stop coming. “I was afraid of people’s opinions,” she explains. “In my professional friendships, belonging to a religious group was not considered acceptable. I didn’t want to be different.”
But the matter kept bothering her until she finally went to a Church meeting. Soon the missionaries were coming again. “When I stopped drinking coffee, I received a testimony. I knew that the Church was true, and I had to join it.”

On an afternoon in April 1989, Pablito, one of the many children who live in my apartment complex, came running to me for help. He had been robbed and mistreated by three thirteen-year-old boys, he said, and he wanted me to help him recover his watch and chain that they had taken. When I walked up to the boys, they did not run away as they normally did. I asked them to return Pablito’s watch and chain. They ignored me. I then searched them, but I didn’t find anything. They were upset because I had searched them, and as they left the complex, they insulted and threatened me. But I didn’t take their threats seriously.
Two days later, some friends of mine told me that several young men had been looking for me.
The next Monday, a group of about twenty-five young men came toward me. I could not imagine what was happening until one of them lunged forward and punched me in the nose. I tried to escape, but it was too late. It was impossible to get away from them. At first they hit me all over, but then they started to slash me with broken bottles. Suddenly I felt something cold in my left side. One of them had knifed me close to the ribs.
The attack ended, and the gang ran away as two police cars arrived. A friend helped me up, but because I had lost a great deal of blood, I was very weak and kept losing consciousness. In addition to the knife wound, I had gashes on my head and thigh, and my face was badly bruised and swollen.
I was taken in one of the police cars to a local hospital. Although the doctors there were able to stitch my wounds, they had to send me to a larger hospital for X rays to check for any internal damage.
After examining the X rays, the doctor said I needed emergency surgery so he could properly assess and treat possible damage to my internal organs.
While I was waiting to go into surgery, my father asked for a few minutes with me. The doctor told him to be brief. Then my father and another priesthood holder placed their hands on my head and gave me a blessing.
After I had been in the operating room for a while, the doctor came out and told my father, “The knife wound in your son’s side is very deep, but the blade did not touch any vital organs. I only had to clean out the wound. I don’t know what you did when you placed your hands on his head, but whatever it was, it worked.”
I was in the hospital for four days and then in recovery for three months—delaying my anticipated mission call. I quickly regained the blood I had lost, my wounds healed, and soon I could stand up and walk.
I know it was because of the power of the priesthood and faith in Jesus Christ that I am alive today. I know the Lord wanted me to serve where I am now, in the Venezuela Maracaibo Mission. I am grateful that he spared my life so I can work in his vineyard.

In November of 2015, from the comfort of my warm bed, I watched a video about the devastating refugee crisis going on in Greece. By the time the video was finished, my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. I knew what that familiar feeling meant. I’d had a prompting, and a few short weeks later, I found myself stepping into the eerie heart of the biggest refugee camp on the island of Lesbos.
As Elder Patrick Kearon of the Quorum of the Seventy stated in general conference, “The reality of these situations must be seen to be believed.”1
I can testify that this is true.
After witnessing the unbelievable conditions for myself and upon learning how dangerous it had been for the refugees in the camp to even make it there alive, I asked one Syrian man why he would risk so much to come there. His answer ended my naive bewilderment:
“Either we stay and die, or we go and maybe die.”
My time at the Moria refugee camp was one of the most difficult experiences of my life, but it also quickly became one of the most inspirational. At first I didn’t think that the small tasks I was given were even making a difference for anybody, but I experienced firsthand the true, indisputable power that love really has.
One afternoon I was talking with Ebrahim, a new friend from Iran. He wanted to know how much I got paid to help in the camp. I smiled and told Ebrahim that I was a volunteer. He had never heard of this word, so I explained. He was shocked and then asked how much money my team leader made. I laughed and told him that everyone in that camp was a volunteer.
I guess word got around, because more of my new friends began commenting on it, saying how surprised they were that we would help them for nothing in return. They had never seen anything like it.
After the horrible, inhumane ways they had been treated, they were justified in thinking that no one would help them—especially strangers. Many told me they hadn’t had any idea what would happen to them once they reached European soil. What a great surprise it must have been to be welcomed off the raging sea into open, caring arms and emergency blankets.
It wasn’t long after these conversations about us volunteers had begun circling the camp that I noticed something very interesting. The refugees began to help me with my tasks! They started picking up trash. They asked if they could help make hot drinks and serve them throughout the freezing nights. They helped with folding, sorting, and distributing donated clothes and setting up and taking down tents. And to my amazement, by the end of my service, there were hardly any jobs left for me to do.
I couldn’t carry a heavy water jug without a man offering to carry it for me. I couldn’t wash dishes without refugees happily telling me they would do them. And not only could I not fling open a garbage bag without a herd of boys rushing over to help, the refugees had almost stopped throwing their trash on the ground altogether!
The changes I witnessed inside the camp were undeniable.
When the somber day arrived that I had to leave the people I had grown to love so much, a man recognized me on the ferry. He approached to thank me for what I had done, when he saw that I held only a coach ticket. He insisted that I switch my ticket for his first-class one for the long, 14-hour ride. He told me that seeing the volunteers’ examples changed him. He wanted to help someone else too, and switching his ticket was the best he could do right now.
“Please,” he begged. “Please.”
Tears filled my eyes as I witnessed once again the ripple effect that genuine service and love can cause.
I had been so naive thinking that the little cups of tea I had been serving weren’t really making a difference for anyone.
Thanks to this experience, I’ve realized that these people truly do need us. They need our time, they need our donations, they need our love, and they need our examples. And we also need them.
What a beautiful world it would be if instead of turning our backs or leaving them to navigate their new circumstances alone, we could just embrace them as our Savior would—showing them love, belonging, and gratitude, and instilling in them a desire to serve others when they are able to themselves.
With the ongoing refugee crises around the world and the different beliefs about how to handle them, I am often reminded of the principle in Mosiah 4:19: “For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have, for both food and raiment, and for gold, and for silver, and for all the riches which we have of every kind?”
It is my prayer that we someday come to realize that we are all beggars. We all need assistance in this life, and I now firmly believe that Heavenly Father expects us to learn from the inevitable suffering that happens around us in mortality. We can learn to love and serve those in need.
Experiences like serving at a refugee camp allow us the chance to be humbler, more understanding, and more compassionate humans. And they give us the sacred honor and privilege of extending a hand to our brothers and sisters and developing true, perfect Christlike love for one another.
I already knew that God loves those refugees enough to have sent others to help them. But now I understand that He loves me just as much to allow me to learn from them too.
At the beginning of my service, I felt discouraged and useless and wished so badly I could fix every problem, or at least do more than just serve tea to those deserving people. But I eventually witnessed the much bigger effects of what I was actually doing there. What my calling there actually was—to spread hope, goodness, and light in a darkening world.
We are all children of heavenly parents, and there is much we can do to help one another, wherever we may be.

“Come on!” Stacy yelled out the jeep window, honking the horn.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I called, running out the front door with my arms full of treats for the road.
Stacy and I had been best friends since the sixth grade. We loved doing all of the same things, which led us to take the same digital photography class that year in high school. For one of our assignments, we decided to drive to San Francisco and take pictures of all the amazing buildings there.
The first part of the road trip was a blast. We listened to music and chatted. Suddenly Stacy pointed to a sign along the freeway that read, “Oakland: 10 miles.” Her eyes went wide. “Hey, should we visit the temple?”
The closest temple to where we lived was in Oakland, a two-hour commute from our town. “I guess we should, since we’re so close,” I replied. Excited, we took the exit off the freeway.
At the end of the ramp, Stacy asked, “Which way now?” We looked around. We had no idea which road the temple was actually on! We just assumed we would see it right off the freeway sitting on a hill. All we knew was that the temple was in the town of Oakland, and we were slowly realizing what a big town it was.
Stacy drove up and down random streets, hoping to see something that we would recognize, but we only found ourselves getting more confused and lost. “This was a bad idea,” Stacy muttered grumpily.
I was about to agree with her, when all of a sudden, I saw it: the golden tip of the temple! “Up there! On top of that hill. Do you see it?” I exclaimed.
“Yeah!” Stacy started to head in the direction of the spire.
We began the process of finding the temple simply by keeping it in sight. We drove up hills, only to come to a dead-end. But instead of getting frustrated like before, we simply reversed and backed up, keeping the temple on the hill in sight. Then, we would start down another path, hoping it would eventually lead us to our goal.
The feeling of hope that we had just by keeping the temple in sight was amazing.
We knew we were at least headed in the right direction, and that filled us with comfort. Eventually we found ourselves in front of the temple gate.
I think of that experience a lot in my life. When I find myself at a dark path and I feel lost or unsure of which way to turn, I remember that if I keep my destination in view, I can eventually reach my goal.

Let me share another example of what it means to be a doer of the word and not a hearer only. Several years ago, I attended a stake conference in New Orleans, Louisiana. This was the weekend of the Super Bowl. There was great excitement about what was anticipated as a great football weekend. In my remarks in the Saturday conference meetings, I told of some experiences young people had had in determining what it meant to keep the Sabbath day holy. Of course, the football game was to be played on Sunday afternoon.
After the Sunday morning session, one of the brethren handed me a regular donation envelope, indicating there was a note inside that would explain an experience he wanted to share. A little later I opened the envelope and read:
“I was going to take my son to the Super Bowl game today. He has been looking forward to this for quite some time. After your talk to the young people and to the older people, we want you to take our tickets and keep them. This is our thanks to you for sharing with us.”
I learned from the stake president that the boy and the father had made the decision not to attend the Sunday game spontaneously, together. Not only did they not use the tickets, which had cost them $30 each, but they did not sell them, which they could have done for as much as $300 each. This was not only being doers of the letter of the word but also keeping the spirit of the word. Those two tickets are permanently placed in my scrapbook as a reminder of a father and his son who together, yet independent of each other’s thinking, decided they were going to keep the Sabbath day holy.

Invite the bishop to come to some of your youth activities. I can remember going on a campout when I was a bishop and falling asleep in the back of the bus. Somewhere there is a picture of me asleep with my mouth open and a wild flower placed inside. My own sons were part of the practical joke. We all grew closer together when the youth got me out of my blue suit and enjoyed some relaxing time with me. If the bishop knows how much you want him to be with you, he will try to find time to be part of your special activities.

One of our main forms of proselyting was by using street meetings. On regular evenings we would start our meetings with a song and prayer at Pemberton Square in Boston or Harvard Square or Central Square in Cambridge. Sunday afternoon was usually spent on the “Commons” where there was a different meeting going on under every tree. Choosing a site for ourselves, we would pick up a discarded wooden ice-cream spoon, and stooping down, scratch out our topic in the gravel path. This usually brought a crowd of curious ones to see what was going on, and then it was up to the speaker to produce. It was interesting, and some lively conversations usually took place, but no conversions resulted.

Susan seemed afflicted with a similar ailment. But hers came when she looked in the mirror.
“Oh my gosh, I look so awful. Other girls have bad hair days—I have bad hair seasons. Why can’t I be thin, tall, blonde, and from Sweden? Is that asking too much?”

And here’s Susan, back in front of the mirror, but with a new attitude:
“Wow, that ribbon Mom gave me really does look good with my hair! It matches my dress, too. Maybe Jennifer would like one. It would look really good with the T-shirt she wore to Young Women last week. Whoah! Look at the time! I’d better hurry. I promised I’d make my famous Swedish meatballs for Mutual tonight!”

One of the experiences that Brother Ottley still laughs about occurred several years ago when the Tabernacle Choir was performing with the Utah Symphony Orchestra at the University of Utah commencement exercises. As he was conducting the two groups, he recalls, “Somehow my baton got away from me and flew clear over the orchestra and dropped down in front of the choir. We just continued with the performance, and I noticed my baton coming along the floor as orchestra members kicked it forward toward me. The principal violist picked it up to hand it to me but realized that at that moment he had to play so he dropped it. Then the concert master picked it up and handed it to me just at the time I was to cue the choir for a big entrance. It got us giggling to the point where we almost didn’t make the entrance.
“But that wasn’t the end of the story; that was only the beginning. The next day my brother, who had been at the commencement exercises, gave me a tube of glue and instructions on how to stick the baton to my fingers. Then a day or two later a choir member presented me with a glove with the index finger cut out of it so that I could slip the baton in through the hole. Several weeks later a lady member of the choir stopped us in the middle of a rehearsal (and you have to remember that our rehearsals generally have a lot of observers), walked down to me and said, ‘Brother Ottley, something must be done before we can proceed.’ On behalf of the choir, she presented me a package which I was forced to unwrap in front of everybody. In it was an archer’s quiver containing a whole bunch of batons so that if I lost one I could grab another one quickly.”

As walls in Europe break down, two LDS girls are doing their best to extend international understanding. Samantha Broadribb of the Norwich Ward, Norwich England Stake, and Geertje Bauerfeind, of the Leipzig Second Ward, Leipzig Germany Stake, have started their own exchange program.
Samantha, a 16-year-old studying German, decided to contact a fellow seminary student in what was then the German Democratic republic. Geertje invited Samantha to stay with her for several weeks to get a taste of life in East Germany. Then Geertje visited Samantha and her family in England for ten days. Geertje loved London’s lights at night.

When you first look at Aaron Shamy, you might think he could get lost in a crowd. At five feet, six inches tall, he has the build of a gymnast. He’s not exactly imposing, especially when you compare him with athletes who passed six feet several inches ago and can bench press more than Aaron weighs.
But believe it or not, Aaron gets compared to those sorts of people all the time. As a world-class speed climber, he caught the attention of climbing fans when he won the 1999 Extreme Games—you may know them as the X Games—speed-climbing competition against a host of climbers who were much taller, stronger, and more experienced.
Journalists, broadcasters, and other climbers quickly forget that Aaron is small when they see him climb. A sportswriter named Steve Smyth described Aaron’s climbing style at the X Games by saying, “He shot up the wall at the sound of the starting gun like a cat darting up a tree to evade an angry dog.”
But it’s what happens after Aaron wins that is truly attention getting.
“I don’t ever remember being nervous talking about my religion at all,” says Aaron, a member of the Holladay 24th Ward, Holladay Utah North Stake. “I’ve made God the center of my life, and everything just falls into place after that. If something is that important, you shouldn’t be afraid to talk about it.”
And he’s not. After his big win, Aaron was asked how he would spend his substantial winnings. Winners in other X Game sports were talking about cars and other “toys” they would spend their money on. But not Aaron.
“I told them that the money would pay for my mission. They [the newscasters at the event] really seemed to like that answer.”
It’s not surprising that Aaron, fresh from the most exciting win of his athletic career, would immediately mention a mission. He doesn’t let opportunities to talk about the gospel slip by, whether he’s on television, with a group of fellow X Gamers, or just talking one-on-one with a friend.
When people meet Aaron they always want to know more about the boy with boundless energy. They are interested in the reasons he doesn’t drink or smoke, the reasons he always seems cheerful, and the reasons people are so drawn to him. And nothing makes Aaron happier than telling them why.
“When I talked to the people at ABC Sports, I told them that the reason I do the things I do is that there are so many good things people can do that there’s no time left for all that unholy, unspiritual stuff,” says Aaron.
Aaron turned 19 just a few months before this year’s X Games, and it would have been easy to postpone his mission just long enough to compete one more time before he left for the mission field, but he says he can’t wait that long. He’s too excited about being a full-time missionary.
“One of my sponsors asked about ‘this mission thing,’” says Aaron. “He asked if my church can’t make an exception and let me leave later. I told him it’s my choice.”
So this is it. Aaron has traded in his climbing gear for a suit and tie, and he’s headed for a summit of a different kind.
When Aaron returns home, maybe he’ll be a little taller; maybe he won’t. But he knows that he’ll grow spiritually and that his testimony and his love for people will be stronger than ever. And it’s that kind of training, more than any climbing or exercise he could do, that makes Aaron easy to spot in any crowd.
Editor’s note: Aaron has received his call to the Italy Padova Mission.

My first impression of Edith Hooper was of white hair framing a wrinkled face. Her wide eyes looked as though she’d drawn a screen just behind them to keep people from seeing deeper inside.
Sister Hooper was an elderly widow, and a recent convert to the Church. My visit to her was my first experience with visiting teaching. I had been asked to go that month with a visiting teacher whose regular companion was ill.
Once inside Sister Hooper’s home, we noticed several glass cabinets containing a large collection of interesting seashells. Sister Hooper brightened noticeably when we asked her about them. But she kept a sense of distance and her television remained on during our entire visit. It was also apparent that she still struggled with a smoking problem.
I thought I felt her breathe a sigh of relief as we stood up to go, and I left wondering what good, if any, our visit had done. I had no way of knowing what a profound effect this woman was to have on my life.
It was eight years before our paths crossed again. I had forgotten all about Edith Hooper until I was assigned to be her visiting teacher. Our first visit to her home confirmed that she had not yet conquered her smoking habit. We soon learned that she no longer drove her car and didn’t get out much. She had few visitors, though she often spoke of two neighbors who checked in on her occasionally. Her main companion was her dog, Cindy.
During the next few months my companion, Virginia Lavender, and I discussed ways we could best help her. We decided to invite Sister Hooper out to lunch—and, since this was just before Christmas, we also bought her a small gift.
As we walked back to the car following the meal, Edith asked “Why are you doing this for me? No one else ever has.” The lump in my throat wouldn’t let me answer. That lunch date was the beginning of many to come.
As we made our monthly visits, we found Edith to be well informed on world and community news; she even had a favorite baseball team. What she didn’t see on television she read about. On several occasions, however, her speech seemed slow and her responses dulled. We would check back on her often after such visits.
One of her interests was genealogy. Sister Hooper had collected a lot of information that she needed help compiling, so I offered to help her type it up. We decided that both of us would benefit from attending the genealogy class in Sunday School. Saturday evenings I would telephone and remind Edith, then call for her the next morning.
We really came to know each other during those Sundays together. I learned that Edith’s mother had died when she was two, and Edith was raised in a convent for the next eleven years. Edith’s father remarried, and at age thirteen Edith was brought home from school to live and do housework. She had little opportunity to spend time with her father because her stepmother would send her from the room after her household tasks were done.
Edith attended high school and then met Gilbert, her husband-to-be. Gilbert was in the Navy fulltime, and when possible, Edith traveled with him. It was in Guam and the Philippines that she dived for her beloved shells. She had catalogued each shell in her collection with origin, specie, and the depth and place she had found it. Often she would dive all day.
She loved her husband’s family as the family she never really had and was pleased when in our genealogy work we were able to get clearance for baptism and temple work for her father, husband (who had died years before), and several members of her husband’s family. She was disappointed, though, that we were never able to get enough information to have her mother’s work completed.
One day I received a phone call from her neighbor saying that Edith had fallen and had been unable to get up. The neighbors had taken her to the emergency room at the local hospital and then to a rest home, where Edith was to live for the next several months. I went to see her, taking several things she wanted, and could see that, under their constant care, she was doing much better.
While she was gone, several women in our ward thoroughly cleaned her home and repainted her kitchen as a surprise. When she returned home, the sisters were organized to check on her daily, reporting any problems to me.
I learned that the difficulty she had been having with her speech was because she was not eating properly and had become weak. We talked about her diet and arranged to have a balanced meal brought in daily by a public service organization. We also discussed her smoking problem. She knew what was best for her, but she also knew that I loved her whether she smoked or not.
As Edith’s health worsened and she became more helpless, she often cried with frustration and embarrassment. I would put my arms around her thin shoulders and reassure her of my love and concern. Gradually this woman, who had never accepted or given affection, except perhaps to her husband, began to respond to my hugs and friendship.
One day another call came from Edith’s neighbor: Edith would not respond to knocks on her door. I arrived and, seeing how sick she was, called my doctor. He came quickly, diagnosed pneumonia, and we took her to the hospital. I visited Edith daily during her hospital stay.
Edith consented to rent her home to help pay expenses. I had begun writing out her checks, which she would sign, to pay her bills, and was eventually appointed conservator of her estate.
Edith had decided to donate her cherished seashell collection to Chico State University, with the understanding that she could choose a few to keep with her. Two university representatives, my husband, and I spent hours carefully packing the shells so none would be broken.
“How much money do I have in my bank account? What has become of my shells?” Edith asked me one day as I entered her hospital room. After I answered her questions, she gratefully replied, “I knew you would take care of them.”
Many days Edith was incoherent when I visited. But other times she would look at me with love in her eyes, protesting that I shouldn’t do so much for her. “Maybe I can be the daughter you never had,” I would reply.
One Saturday when the pneumonia had worsened and Edith was seriously ill, she was unable to respond to me. The next day my husband visited her and said she had recognized him and suggested that I go again the next day.
When I got there, I took Edith in my arms, as I had many times before, and asked if she knew who I was. She nodded that she did. I told her she was doing a good job and that I was proud of her. “You know I love you, don’t you?” I added. She nodded again.
That was our last meeting in this life. Edith passed away the next morning.
As we had agreed, I made the arrangements for her funeral. As I sat there at the services, noticing that there were no family members present, I wondered how often this sweet lady had heard the words, “I love you.”
“Impossible,” I would have said to anyone who had told me eight years ago that I would learn to love this withdrawn, stubborn woman. But she has touched my life in a way I can’t express.
I promised Edith that I would complete her temple endowment, and I have. The chapter is complete.

Some years ago I returned home to find our little children had discovered some newly hatched chicks under the manger in the barn. As our little girl held one of them, I said in a teasing way, “That will make a nice watchdog when it grows up, won’t it?” She looked at me quizzically, as if I didn’t know much.
So I changed my approach: “It won’t be a watchdog, will it?” She shook her head, “No, Daddy.” Then I added, “It will be a nice riding horse.”
She wrinkled up her nose and gave me that “Oh, Dad!” look. Even though she was only four years old, she knew that the little chick would grow up to be either a hen or a rooster—much like its mother or father.
All animal life produces after its own kind, and little ones grow up to look and to be like their parents. That is true of people too. Small boys and girls grow up to be big boys and girls, then men and women.
I testify that God is indeed our Father. When we reach our full growth and destiny, we have the promise that we may be like Him. Just as all life follows the pattern of its parents, so can we grow toward the image of our Heavenly Father if we will live righteously and be obedient to His commandments.

Elisa walked into Primary and sat by her friend Armando.
“Welcome!” Sister Russo said. “Let’s start with a song.”
Elisa sang with her class. “Faith is like a little seed: if planted, it will grow” (Children’s Songbook, 96).
Sister Russo passed out paper and crayons. “Think about what we sang,” she said. “When you plant your seed of faith, it grows into a testimony. Now draw what your testimony would look like if it were a plant.”
Elisa stared at her blank paper. She didn’t know what to draw. She peeked at the plant Armando was drawing. It had a straight stem with lots of leaves. It looked like the basil growing on her apartment balcony. Maybe that was what a testimony was supposed to look like! She used her crayon to draw one like his.
“Please open your scriptures to Alma 32,” Sister Russo said.
They read about planting a seed in your heart and feeling it grow. Elisa looked at her drawing and frowned. Did she have a testimony? What did that even mean? She wanted to ask, but she felt too shy.
When class ended, Elisa didn’t get up right away.
“Is everything OK?” Sister Russo asked.
Elisa glanced down at her drawing again. “I’m not sure I have a testimony. I don’t really know what that means.”
Sister Russo gave Elisa a kind smile. “That’s OK. Do you remember what faith is?”
Elisa nodded. “Believing in something we can’t see?”
“That’s right!” Sister Russo said. “What are some things you believe in?”
That was an easy question. “I believe in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I believe They love me.”
Sister Russo smiled. “You just shared your testimony! A testimony is what you have faith in.”
Elisa thought about it. “So I already have a testimony?”
“Yes!” Sister Russo held up her scriptures. “And remember what we read today? You nourish the seed by doing things like coming to church. Then your testimony will grow stronger.”
Elisa felt like she understood. “So that’s why we drew our testimonies as plants?”
“Exactly. Because plants grow little by little,” Sister Russo said. “Testimonies are the same way. They usually don’t come all at once. They grow a little at a time.”
Elisa felt better about her drawing. When she got home, she wrote “My Testimony Plant” above her picture. She hung it up by her bed. She knew her testimony was already growing. And she wanted to keep following Jesus so it could grow even bigger!

A friend of ours was hospitalized following an accident. A neighbor remarked, “I’ve got to bake something for Sally’s family,” but she didn’t. Then she said, “I’ve got to visit Sally while she is still in bed.” But she didn’t. On another occasion she told us, “I’ve just got to get a card off to Sally,” but she never did. These are examples of wanting to be a good neighbor but kind of faking it, though there probably were extenuating circumstances and good excuses.

To say I used to hate exercise is an understatement. Just about any form of exercise was uncomfortable. In my middle school gym class, we had to run laps around the field to complete a mile and a half. We also did other exercises to build endurance, strength, and flexibility. All of it was incredibly hard. And all of it took me a long time to do.
There was a reason things were so challenging. I was born with Cystic Fibrosis (CF), which is a genetically inherited terminal illness.
My condition causes mucus to build up in my lungs. My body also has a hard time absorbing nutrients. Because of this, I need lung treatments every morning and night to keep my airways clear. I also take a series of medications throughout the day. I’ve always done this. However, my life seriously improved once I added a couple of extra health habits. And yes, one is daily exercise!
Everything started to change in my life when I found something I genuinely loved to do. While in high school, I discovered dancing. The first time I combined movement with music and put my whole energy into dancing, I knew I’d found something special.
When I first started to dance, I experienced the same discomforts I had while running laps in middle school. This time, though, my new passion for dancing made all the difference. I felt carried away as my feet pounded and leapt to the rhythms and beats of the music. I was able to express myself freely through a variety of movements, feeling uplifted and empowered.
I took entry-level dance classes at school and danced as much as possible. The longer I kept at it, the more I noticed big changes in my health. My lung function grew stronger and steadier. As I continued staying active through doing what I loved, I was able to accomplish much more than I’d ever dreamed.
I’d been taught my whole life that my body is a temple. But I hadn’t really considered how this means both avoiding harmful things (drugs, alcohol, coffee, tea, etc.) but also doing the healthy things my body needs.
President Russell M. Nelson has taught: “With your body being such a vital part of God’s eternal plan, it is little wonder that the Apostle Paul described it as a ‘temple of God’ [1 Corinthians 3:16]. Each time you look in the mirror, see your body as your temple. That truth—refreshed gratefully each day—can positively influence your decisions about how you will care for your body and how you will use it. And those decisions will determine your destiny.”1
As I took care of my body and saw it as a temple, my life changed for the better. Breathing was easier, my energy increased, and I became more alert to my surroundings. My body weight increased to a healthy level, which I could better maintain because my lungs weren’t working so hard.
Before, I had always experienced a health crash at least once a year and needed a two-week hospital stay to restore my health. But after I started dancing and taking better care of myself, that need disappeared. I went six or seven years without having to stay in a hospital.
After graduation I headed off to Brigham Young University. While there, I kept pondering a part of my patriarchal blessing that mentions sharing the gospel. In the past, I’d always thought, “There’s no way I can ever serve a full-time mission. It’s too risky with CF!” In addition to the health risks, I was afraid my daily treatment routine wouldn’t fit with a typical missionary schedule.
Still, the thought wouldn’t go away. Could I actually serve a mission?
As I pondered and prayed, I kept thinking about my favorite scripture. In Mosiah 2:20–21, King Benjamin taught how the Lord had “kept and preserved” His people, “lending [them] breath” each day. These scriptures helped me see how the Lord had “kept and preserved” me.
Though I was still a bit scared, I knew it was God’s will for me to serve. I received a doctor’s clearance, submitted my papers, and was called to serve a mission. I believed the scripture that teaches that God is “supporting [me] from one moment to another” (Mosiah 2:21). As I served my mission in Boston, Massachusetts, that promise was definitely fulfilled.
My mission days were a treasure. One of the greatest blessings was developing a deeper relationship with Heavenly Father and with Jesus Christ. Part of that closeness meant achieving a better understanding of Their will concerning me, including the importance of safeguarding my health.
As a missionary, you’re focused on serving others. Yet I knew that to stay on my mission, I had to remain healthy. I decided to never miss a lung treatment. I would exercise every morning. And I would maintain good eating habits.
As a result, I was better able to be His instrument and serve others. It was a valuable lesson to know I can still serve, even with my illness. I’ve learned that what you can do, despite any limitations you have, is much better to focus on than what you can’t do.
Satan wants us to mistreat our bodies. The adversary and the world try to twist something good—the need to take care of our bodies—into something harmful: the idea that you must look or feel a certain way. This distortion can cause great discouragement when we don’t look that certain way or fit a certain size.
How do we overcome this worldly message and focus instead on better health? How can we stay motivated to prioritize better health, despite all our challenges?
One answer is to live with gratitude.
When we see our body as a gift from our Creator—when we are grateful for all it can do—we feel stronger motivation to care for it and live to our fullest capacity.
There are times with CF where my lungs don’t get the full breaths I need—when my arms become swollen from PICC lines and IVs, when I feel fatigued while fighting off illnesses. In these times, I’ve found that I can either sulk and see my body’s limitations or express gratitude by using well what is still functioning and taking the best care of myself. When we live with patience, faith, and gratitude, we find joy.
Although many say the mission is the best years of their life, I’ve come to find that my life is a mission. My mission president would always say, “A mission is the training wheels for an unselfish, consecrated life. When the mission ends, the training wheels come off, and you ride.”
Because I changed my lifestyle years ago, I’ve been able to reach a clearer understanding of what the Lord has in store for me and to accomplish much more while paying heed to the Spirit’s direction to help me change. I know that “unto whom much is given much is required” (D&C 82:3).
I’ve experienced the change from being sedentary, weak, and ill to becoming stronger and more capable. I now have many dreams and know how to better work alongside the Lord to accomplish His work. I’ve also decided to study corporate wellness and fitness coaching as my profession. After experiencing so many positive changes in my own life, I want to help others reach their potential too.
When it comes to our physical health, I think of how the Lord has sent us here so that we may have joy (see 2 Nephi 2:25). I believe this includes each of us being able to live each day to the fullest, especially within our families and with those closest to us.
I think often about the joy I can experience with my family today and throughout eternity. Some trials come and go, some stay, but our Heavenly Father, our Savior, and His gospel and promises are always constant.

When I was 18, I was living in Lima, Peru, where I was born and raised. At that time my father came across a good friend he hadn’t seen in a long time.
My father was impressed that his friend looked younger and was well dressed. He asked his friend what had happened to him to create this transformation. “Did you just win the lottery?” he asked. The friend responded, “Well, something better than that. Now I am a Mormon, and I want to share the gospel with you and your family.”
My father thought his friend was joking, so he said, “OK, if you want to send your missionaries, do it.” But this man was very serious about it, and within a few days the missionaries came and knocked on our door. That was the beginning of a wonderful experience.
The missionaries taught us about the Book of Mormon and left a copy for us to read. This was during the summer, and I was on vacation for a couple of months after finishing my first year at the university. So I took the book that afternoon after the discussion and started to read it.
Page after page I read and read and read, and I couldn’t stop. There was this magic that came from the book. I love reading and had read many books, but this was different. I was captured by the book, and after I had read for several hours, my mother said, “Juan, turn off the light! Your brothers want to sleep.” And I said, “Yeah, just a moment, just a moment,” and I continued reading. Even after many hours of reading, I had no hunger, no thirst, and no desire for sleep.
Illustration by Brian Call
Before I finished the book, I knew that something special was in it. I had a testimony because of three things that I experienced as I was reading the book for the first time.
The first thing that happened to me during those hours was a profound feeling of peace that was different from anything I had experienced before. This feeling of peace was with me for several hours.
The second thing I experienced as I was reading was a feeling of joy. It was not the happiness I was used to having when I was with my friends or when I bought something I really liked. It was not a feeling of happiness; it was a feeling of joy. As I was reading, I began to cry and I realized, “Wow, I like this!”
And the third thing that I experienced was enlightenment. When I first started to read, it was difficult to understand because there were words like Nephi and Atonement that were unfamiliar to me. But after a few hours of reading, my mind was opened, and it was like there was light in my mind and I could comprehend more and more as I continued reading the book.
I learned later that those three experiences are some of the ways in which the Spirit manifests to us. I had received the Spirit, and I was ready to be baptized, but I needed to wait for the rest of my family to receive their own testimonies. Finally on April 6, 1972, my mother, my sister, and I were baptized. My father and my other two siblings were present and attentive to what we were going through, and a few months afterward, they were baptized too.

“Run, Jimmy, run!” Margi called as the boy started through the meadow after the bright yellow ball. Seven-year-old Jimmy turned his head to admire his big sister.
“No, Jimm …” But it was too late. Jimmy’s awkward feet hit each other and he tumbled to the ground. Margi ran to see the hurt.
“Jimmy fall,” he said proudly.
“Yes, Jimmy did.” Margi sat down in the grass beside her brother and ran her fingers through his blond hair as if he were a puppy. “Jimmy’s a big boy. He didn’t cry.”
His unique, innocent smile grew bigger, revealing two missing teeth, and his blue eyes twinkled with pride. “Jimmy big boy,” he said.
Margi didn’t answer. She whisked again at his blonde hair and pulled him onto her lap. Jimmy cuddled contentedly into her arms, and they sat silently breathing in the crisp autumn air seasoned with the smell of freshly cut hay. Margi loved the meadow with its clean smells and the feel of grass on her ankles and the rainbow of meadow flowers.
A lonely autumn leaf floated across the grass, landing right in Jimmy’s lap. He grabbed at it, but Margi pushed his hands away.
“Careful, it will tear. It’s a leaf. Pretty leaf.”
She twirled the leaf in her fingers as Jimmy stared. “Pretty leaf,” he repeated.
“Yes,” Margi said, “pretty leaf. Here.” She placed the leaf carefully between his thumb and index finger and moved his fingers back and forth.
“See, you can twirl the leaf, too. Now do it alone.”
Jimmy’s thumb skidded off his finger, and the leaf floated to the ground. Sadly he turned and searched Margi’s face for a reaction.
Margi smiled and gave him a reassuring hug. “It’s all right.”
Quickly the smile spread back over Jimmy’s face. “Now go get the ball!” She laughed as she stood Jimmy up on his feet.
Awkwardly he stumbled toward the ball. Margi watched, wishing so hard that she could help, but she couldn’t. No one could. He had to walk alone no matter how clumsy he was or how often he fell. She lay down in the grass and stared at the hazy blue sky.
“Maybe Sue is right,” she thought. “Maybe I am stupid to waste so much time trying to help Jimmy.” Her face flushed as she thought of Friday when she took Jimmy to the football game at school. She’d never thought of the possibility, but when she went to sit with her friends, they asked her not to.
“It’s not that we don’t like you, but, well, he does such stupid things,” Sue had said. “I know he can’t help it, but, well, you know; it’s embarrassing.”
Margi could feel the awful sting in her stomach all over again.
“But Sue didn’t mean to be cruel; she just didn’t understand,” Margi thought as she remembered the excited look on Jimmy’s face when she told him they were going to a football game.
“That’s it,” she thought. “Sue just doesn’t understand. She’s never been around Jimmy to see how he loves life and how in his own way he’s so special. It doesn’t matter that he’s not as capable as other kids his age. People understand.” Then she remembered Sue’s words again and once more the hollow dejected sting settled deep in her stomach. “Or do they? Is it really worth it? I’ve got my own life. Jimmy has teachers and friends at the school and Mom and Dad. There are lots of people to help him, but what about me? Am I really helping him anyway? What can I do that his specially trained teachers can’t? Maybe I am just wasting my own life. Maybe Sue understands more than I do.”
Suddenly Jimmy was next to her. He held the ball high then let it fall on her stomach. Then he threw his head back and laughed. But the action made him lose his balance, and he tumbled onto her.
“Oh, Jimmy!” Margi started to scold then swallowed the words as she looked into his face. Love, that’s all that was there. Love wanting to be loved back. Love longing to love. So instead she smiled.
“Come on,” she said, “I’ll roll the ball to you.”
But Jimmy didn’t hear. A bright yellow butterfly had caught his eye. His chubby little hand reached out to touch it. Quickly the butterfly was up and away.
Margi took Jimmy’s hand. “Shh,” she said, putting her other hand to her lips. Quietly they lay on their stomachs and waited as the butterfly slowly found its way back to the dandelion in front of them.
“Pretty yellow butterfly,” Margi said.
“Pretty yellow butterfly,” Jimmy repeated slowly. Margi watched Jimmy stare. He seemed to see more than she did. His innocence—maybe that is what it was—made him seem part of their surroundings.
She looked again at the butterfly. “What more can he see? It is just a butterfly, a plain yellow butterfly.” She looked back at Jimmy and she knew he did see more. “Maybe someday I’ll see it, too. Jimmy is teaching me!” She laughed out loud at the thought, and the startled butterfly escaped into the sky.
“Butterfly gone.” Jimmy sighed sadly, and Margi was sorry she’d laughed.
“Look at the yellow flowers,” she said, wanting somehow to make it up to him.
“Pretty flowers,” Margi said, picking the dandelion and holding it close to her nose. “Pretty yellow flower.”
“Yellow flower?”
Margi looked at Jimmy to see if it really were a question. “Yes, yellow. Yellow flower, green grass, yellow flower.”
“Yellow flower,” Jimmy repeated proudly.
Margi sat up and grabbed the beach ball. “Yellow ball, yellow flower, yellow ball.” She held the two side by side.
“Yellow ball,” Jimmy repeated. “Yellow grass.”
“No, Jimmy, green grass, yellow ball.” Margi sighed as she remembered all the times they’d been through similar scenes, and still Jimmy didn’t learn. She smiled and ran her hand through his hair. “That’s all right, tiger. What does it matter if you don’t know the colors. You love it, don’t you? And maybe that’s what more you see in it, love.”
Jimmy looked at her face searching to understand.
Margi laughed. “Pretty yellow flower.”
“Yellow flower.” He smiled.
Suddenly the butterfly was back. “Look!” Margi pointed. “Pretty butterfly.”
Suddenly Jimmy’s eyes grew wide and he stared excitedly. “Pretty yellow butterfly.”
Margi looked hopefully into Jimmy’s face. Did he know?
“Yes, Jimmy, yellow ball, yellow flower, yellow butterfly.”
“Yellow, pretty yellow.” Jimmy pointed.
“Yes, yellow ball.”
“Yellow ball,” he repeated.
“Yellow flower.”
“Yellow flower.”
“Yellow grass?” she tested, holding her breath.
Jimmy stared at the grass she pointed to. Seconds passed as his face drew into a worried grimace. “No, Margi, yellow flower.” Margi grabbed Jimmy and hugged him to her, half crying, half laughing.
“Yes, Jimmy, yes.” she cried. And her heart cried too. No words; just love. Jimmy knew and she knew. It was her life and she was living it, really living it. And she couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for Sue.

When the time came, I shared some of my history and what I had learned: I was born in Monrovia, Liberia, in 1996, during the civil war. My father was a soldier, steadfast and determined, navigating a world torn by the Monrovian conflict. He was deeply cherished as the only son of his mother. Tragically, both of my parents passed away two weeks after my birth; they were victims of the brutal conflict that engulfed our country. With their loss, I was taken back to my mother’s roots in Guinea, where I spent my childhood alternating between Guinea and Ivory Coast. I grew up hearing stories about our family’s origins and the incredible legacy left by our ancestors. I learned that our great-grandparents began their journey in Sudan over 200 years ago.
One of the most remarkable stories is about my great-grandfather, who was Liberia’s first doctor. His mission was to bring healing and hope to those in need. He was later transferred to the deep forests of what is now the Nimba region, where he was granted vast lands to establish his medical mission.
This land became the foundation for a legacy of service and family. My great-grandfather had 24 wives and many children, and from generation to generation, his family grew. My grandfather, Samuel J. Mentee, was among them, and he continued the family legacy. By the time of his passing, he left behind an incredible record of 170 grandchildren, of which I am one.
Beyond my family story, I want to share my testimony of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A pivotal moment in my spiritual journey came when I received the Book of Mormon in French from a friend while working as a hotel security supervisor. Reading its pages filled me with hope and a sense of belonging I had never known. Its introduction, which humbly acknowledges human imperfections, inspired a profound exploration of its truths. Life’s trials have tested my faith and resilience. Loneliness, loss, and the struggle to find a place to call home have been persistent challenges. Yet these very hardships have refined me, teaching me to lean on the Lord and trust His timing. Quiet moments of reflection have brought clarity and strength, allowing me to feel the guiding influence of the Holy Ghost. Each trial reminds me that God’s hand is always at work, shaping me for a greater purpose.
Following those promptings, I eventually found my way to Tema, Ghana. It was here that I began committed lessons with the missionaries. I owe a heartfelt thank you to them, especially Elder Young, whose dedication and spirit inspired me to grow closer to the Savior.
On a beautiful Sunday morning, December 22, 2024, I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. From the moment I joined, I have felt the love and care among the members. The Church has brought light and joy into my life, and I am forever grateful for the blessings it has provided.
I want to express my deepest gratitude to my best friend, Sister Betsy Thornton, who has been a pillar of support and encouragement in my journey. Her kindness, wisdom, and love have left a lasting impact on my heart.
Each step of this journey has deepened my appreciation for family history and the Church. Family history has shown me the power of connection, the importance of understanding where we come from, and the joy of sharing these stories with others.
Wherever you are, if you are reading this, consider this as your personal invitation. Embrace FamilySearch and begin preserving your legacy for generations to come. How will your descendants learn about you 100 years from now?
I, Alias, am calling. And the Lord is also calling for the betterment of our shared tomorrow. Do not let history fade away with us—let it be recorded in FamilySearch. Wherever you are from, but especially to my beloved brothers and sisters from Africa, hear this call.
I am grateful for the opportunity to tell this story and to inspire others to embark on their own family history journeys. The past is not just history: it is the foundation upon which we build our present and future.

Catrina hurried home from school. The missionaries were coming today. She had promised her mamá that she would sweep the floor. Mamá was gone working as a housekeeper and would not be home until later that night.
Señor and Señora Klatzpan and their two-year-old son, Helmut, shared the house with Catrina’s family. Sharing houses was common in Colombia where many families could not afford homes of their own.
Señor Klatzpan and his little family had moved to Colombia from Germany a year ago. He spoke Spanish with difficulty. His wife spoke little of the language and communicated mostly with her hands. Helmut was learning Spanish as well as German.
Catrina occasionally tended Helmut. She liked his sweet baby smell.
Catrina’s papá worked long hours as did her mamá. Her abuela (grandma) spent many hours with Catrina and her brother, Ramón, telling them stories of their ancestors and the traditions of their family.
Catrina and her mamá kept the house as clean as possible, but it was difficult with so many people living in the four small rooms.
She remembered the day the missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had knocked at their door.
The young men, in their white shirts and ties, spoke of Jesus Christ and the restored gospel. The words sounded strange. Though they spoke fluently, their accent made it difficult for Catrina to understand what they said.
She listened carefully to the Joseph Smith story, not wanting to miss a word. When Elder Todd bore his testimony of Joseph Smith and the living prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, she knew she had heard the truth.
Señor and Señora Klatzpan accepted the gospel and were baptized members of the Church shortly after the elders challenged them to be baptized.
Catrina noticed a change in the Klatzpans. They seemed more content, though they still had little money. When she asked them about it, Señor Klatzpan said that the gospel had changed their lives.
“It brings us much joy,” Señor Klatzpan said. “My Gerta and I have never been happier. When you and your family are baptized, you will know the same blessings.”
Catrina didn’t know if her papá would ever allow their family to be baptized. His parents and their parents before them had belonged to another religion. Tradition was an important part of their family.
Today the elders spoke more about families. When they explained a father’s blessing, Señor Klatzpan leaned forward eagerly. “My Helmut. I want him to have this blessing. Will you do it?”
Elder Todd shook his head. “We could give him a priesthood blessing, but only you can give him a father’s blessing. You have received the Melchizedek Priesthood and have the authority to do so.”
Señor Klatzpan looked helplessly from one elder to the other. “I do not know how to do such a thing.”
“Listen to the Spirit,” Elder Todd said in his quiet way. “It will guide you and your words.”
Señor Klatzpan put his hand on his chest. “Is it that which makes my heart beat so rapidly?”
Elder Stevenson nodded. “The Spirit often touches our hearts in just that way.”
A smile of pure joy spread over Señor Klatzpan’s face. “I am ready.” Solemnly he placed his hands on Helmut’s head. Words poured forth as he blessed his child.
Catrina felt tears prick her eyes. She, too, felt the Spirit.
When the elders left, she turned to her papá. “Papá, I want to be baptized. With you and Mamá and Ramón. I want you to give me a blessing like Señor Klatzpan gave Helmut.”
“We have heard the truth,” he said slowly. “It would be wrong not to be baptized.”
“What about Abuela?” Catrina asked.
“She will understand,” he said. “Tradition is important. But truth is precious.”
Catrina brushed the tears from her eyes and hugged her papá.