Gospel Story Finder

My classmates and I were staying overnight at Tanyllyn Lodge in the Welsh mountains as part of our sixth-form geography field trip. I was glad that my friend Louise and I were assigned to share a room.
It took us a while to get ready for bed. We took turns using the one tiny sink in the room and the even tinier mirror. Our clothing for the next day had to be set out along with our hiking boots and thick socks. Louise finished her preparations before I did and climbed into her bed.
When I had finished doing everything except saying my prayers, I hesitated beside my bed. Louise was not a member of the Church and had no idea I prayed each night.
My first instinct was to slip into bed as she had done and feign sleep while I silently prayed. But I anticipated two big flaws with that decision. First, I knew Louise would start talking to me and I would never make it through my prayer uninterrupted. Second, I was a little daunted by the next day’s grueling agenda and needed the comfort of a fervent prayer on my knees.
I vacillated in indecision for a few minutes, then turned to Louise and told her I was going to say a prayer. She looked a bit startled, but before she could say anything, I knelt at the end of the bed, bowed my head, closed my eyes, and offered a silent personal prayer. She was still watching when I rose.
There was a rather awkward silence as I crawled into my bed. As I anxiously searched for something to say, Louise said, “Sian, do you do that every night?”
“Yes,” I replied.
There was a slight pause, then the question, “What do you say?”
I was surprised. I had never really considered the possibility of someone not knowing how to pray. I told Louise I began my prayers by addressing our Father in Heaven. Then I thanked him for blessings I had received, asked him to help me, and closed my prayer in the name of Jesus Christ.
There was another pause, and during the silence I felt my heartbeat quicken. Before I lost my nerve, I asked her if she would like to pray with me.
“Okay,” she said, with curiosity in her voice. “What do we do?”
We knelt together by the side of the bed, and I said a prayer aloud. When it was over, I asked her how she felt.
She smiled shyly. “Well, you’ve given me something to think about.”
I don’t know what Louise’s thoughts were as we lay in our beds afterward. Mine were thoughts of gratitude. Lying there in the dark, I felt the Spirit confirming to me that we do have a Heavenly Father who loves us and listens to our prayers. I hope Louise felt it, too.

I went through a rough patch my senior year in high school when I wasn’t making great choices. I remember seeing my mom crying, and I wondered if I’d disappointed her. At the time, I worried that her tears meant she’d lost hope for me, and if she didn’t feel hope for me, maybe there wasn’t a way back.

But my dad was more practiced at zooming out and taking the long view. He’d learned from experience that worry feels a lot like love, but it’s not the same. He used the eye of faith to see that everything would work out, and his hopeful approach changed me.

When I graduated from high school and went to BYU, my dad sent letters reminding me of who I was. He became my cheerleader, and everybody needs a cheerleader—someone who isn’t telling you, “You’re not running fast enough”; they’re lovingly reminding you that you can.

Dad exemplified Lehi’s dream. Like Lehi, he knew that you don’t chase after your loved ones who feel lost. “You stay where you are and call them. You go to the tree, stay at the tree, keep eating the fruit and, with a smile on your face, continue to beckon to those you love and show by example that eating the fruit is a happy thing!”

This visual image has helped me during low moments when I find myself at the tree, eating the fruit and crying because I’m worried; and really, how helpful is that? Instead, let’s choose hope—hope in our Creator and in one another, fueling our ability to be better than we are right now.

“What’s the matter?” Phebe asked.
“Just thinking,” Sadie answered.
“About Christmas?”
“Yes,” Sadie sighed. “This morning I was all excited about the day but now it doesn’t seem like Christmas with Papa plowing, Mama milking, and us working in here just like any other day. Shouldn’t we do a little more than what Mama has planned to celebrate this Christmas?”
“Well, you know what Mama said.”
“I know. There’s too much work, not enough extra anything, so no gifts, and we’ll have a small Christmas dinner. Just an ordinary day,” Sadie repeated mechanically. “But this is our very first Christmas in the Salt Lake Valley—maybe the very first time anyone has celebrated Christmas here! It seems as though it should be special.”
Phebe lifted the black cooking kettle out of the big pot. “Then let’s make it special!”
“Sure, but how?” Sadie asked sadly.
Before Phebe could answer someone walked past the cabin whistling, “Come, Come Ye Saints.” Suddenly Sadie’s face beamed. “I have an idea,” she said and jumped up and ran to the window. “Where’s Abigail?”
“Out getting wood, why?” Phebe asked.
“To make sure this Christmas will be special!”
Phebe laughed. “And how are you going to make it special?”
“Not me, we! Let’s get Abigail!”
“But Mama said to start the bread before she got back from milking.”
“I’ll get it started while you help Abigail. Now hurry!” Sadie grabbed the kettle as Phebe shrugged her shoulders and threw on her shawl.
“This better be good,” Phebe said as she disappeared through the door.
Soon she was back carrying an armload of wood, with Abigail tagging along behind. They dumped the wood by the fireplace and turned to Sadie.
“Now what?” Phebe asked.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you. Do you remember what made the trip across the plains easier?” she asked.
“The oxen,” Phebe laughed.
“Now, be serious,” Sadie said. Then she continued, “Remember those terrible dust storms, and the times when we stumbled through buffalo tracks with the sun burning down on us? Remember how we’d all want to just give up, and then what would always pull us through?”
“Someone would start singing Brother Clayton’s hymn,” answered Abigail, whose puzzled face showed she didn’t understand what these questions had to do with Christmas.
“Right!” said Sadie excitedly. “Through the whole chain of wagons you could hear ‘Come, Come Ye Saints’ ringing out over the empty prairie.”
“What does that have to do with Christmas?” asked Phebe, just as puzzled as her little sister.
“Well if ‘Come, Come Ye Saints’ could make those hard times seem almost good, a song could surely make this Christmas special,” Sadie replied.
“What song?” her sisters asked together.
“Our song!” Sadie could hardly contain her excitement. “We’ll compose our own Christmas song and sing it for Mama and Papa after dinner tonight.” Sadie held her breath as she waited for their response.
Abigail and Phebe looked at each other, then back to their sister, their eyes brightening. “So far this has been just another Saturday, not like other Christmases,” Phebe said. “Let’s try it!”
“All right,” Abigail agreed.
Just then the door opened and Mama lugged the heavy milkpail into the cabin. “Girls, your father wants you to unhitch the oxen for him. He had to go help the Carters.”
“Right now?” Abigail asked.
“Come on,” Sadie whispered. “We can compose out there.”
Hurriedly the three girls put on their shawls and left.
“What should our song be about?” Abigail asked when they were outside.
Sadie’s eyes were far away in thought. “It has to be a song about Christmas and love.”
“Well, like Mama says, all we have this Christmas is love.”
“Then we’ll call it ‘Christmas Love.’”
“I have an idea too,” Abigail almost shouted. “We could sing our song and then tell the story of Jesus.”
Phebe’s eyes sparkled as she said, “I never thought I’d be excited about a song for the first Christmas in our new home, but I am!”
“Come on,” Sadie called as she started running. “Let’s get the oxen unhitched and put in the barn.”
After the oxen were bedded down and fed, the girls worked on their song in the barn. They worked quickly so Mama wouldn’t miss them and Papa wouldn’t find them still there.
That night when the family gathered around the table, the girls were hardly able to sit still as they ate their dinner.
“I told you this wild turkey I shot would make it Christmas,” Papa said with a smile.
“Turkey isn’t all there is to Christmas,” Abigail said laughingly.
“Then what’s causing all the excitement?”
“It’s Christmas!” they all shouted at once.
“You didn’t seem to think it was so exciting when we all had to work today,” Mama said, her eyes twinkling.
“I guess we finally caught the spirit of Christmas,” Sadie answered.
Mama wrinkled her forehead, but she didn’t ask any questions. “Let’s get these dishes —” she began, but before she could finish, Abigail, Phebe, and Sadie were busy clearing off the table.
“What about pudding?” Papa protested.
“Let’s have it later,” Sadie suggested.
“What’s going on?” Mama asked. “All through dinner you girls have been acting like bottled thunder.”
“I think it’s about to be uncorked,” their father answered with a wry smile on his face.
“We have a surprise!” Abigail could no longer keep the secret. “A Christmas surprise just for you!”
A smile replaced the tired lines in their mother’s face. “Well, what is it?” she asked.
“Something to make Christmas special. Please sit down,” Sadie instructed. “We started out with just a song, but now we have a whole program.”
Slowly the three girls began to sing their song, “Christmas Love.” When they finished singing, Abigail and Phebe went on humming while Sadie told the Christmas story.
“Once an angel visited a woman named Mary and told her that she would be the mother of Jesus. The angel also visited Joseph who was to be her husband and told him the wonderful news.
“They had to go to Bethlehem to pay taxes and while they were there the baby was born in a manger. It was such a beautiful and important event that even the angels seemed to sing.
“There were some shepherds who heard the angels and they were so excited they traveled through the night to see the little Christ Child.
“Later a star guided some wise men who went to visit Jesus. All of this was a part of the very first Christmas, a Christmas of love.”
When Sadie finished the story, the girls began to softly sing the song again.
“Christ was born in a lowly stable
But a stable filled with love. …”
Then Phebe said, “And this is a Christmas of love. We have a new, safe home and we have the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“And a Christmas song from our very own daughters,” Papa said, as he dished up the pudding.
“This is the best Christmas I can remember,” Mama said, her eyes misty.
Mama is pleased, Sadie thought, and a warm, tingly feeling tickled her spine.

Starting high school was scary. I felt lost in a massive student body, the big campus, and new classes. I tried to keep somewhat invisible so that I wouldn’t embarrass myself.
Slowly I adjusted to my new situation. I got involved in the theater department and made some great friends. By October, I was invited to a birthday party for one of the older, popular boys in our theater group.
I was ecstatic! It was a costume party, and I spent hours putting together an Egyptian dress. The night of the party, my heart was pounding as I walked into the house and saw all my new theater friends in fantastic costumes. Many of them were juniors and seniors, and I still couldn’t believe that they had invited me.
About an hour into the party, our host pulled out a movie and excitedly called all of us to go into the other room to watch it. My stomach clenched when I saw the movie’s case. It was not a movie I wanted to see. Ever!
We all herded into the next room. I tucked myself into a corner of a couch and felt sick. My mind raced over what I should do. Everyone in the room seemed so excited to watch the film. They were my theater group. They were my new friends. I didn’t want to ostracize myself so soon after finally feeling included.
As the title of the movie flickered onto the screen, I knew what I had to do. Without saying a word, I stood up from the couch and walked quietly to the kitchen and stood there in the dark for a minute. Then I turned on the light and considered my options.
I knew the movie would go on for about two hours. Should I call my mom to come get me? Should I wait around in the kitchen for two hours? I had no idea, but the sick feeling in my stomach had lessened, and I was surprised that I no longer felt afraid.
As I stood there in the kitchen trying to figure out what to do, the door from the other room opened and a pretty, popular junior girl walked through. She smiled sheepishly at me and then confessed, “I really didn’t want to see that movie, but I didn’t want to be the only one who left. When I saw you leave and you didn’t come back, I wondered if you felt the same way.”
I nodded, and we both laughed. We hadn’t said more than two sentences before the door opened and another girl came through.
“Did you want to see that movie?” she whispered timidly.
“No,” we both admitted to her.
Over the course of the next five minutes, people kept walking through the door, confessing that they didn’t actually want to see that movie. When at last our host came through the door, he announced, “I’ve turned off the movie. Does anyone want to play a game?”
Later that night, I thought about what had happened. Would we all have sat there watching that awful movie if no one had moved? How would I have felt now if I had stayed? I was struck by the thought that no one had really wanted to see the movie, but everyone had been too afraid to leave. I was surprised that I wasn’t alone in wanting to do the right thing.
That thought gave me a new courage that later helped me make many other decisions before high school was over. Sometimes my decisions left me standing alone. But far more often, my decisions created a chain reaction of good choices by people around me, just like it did at that birthday party.

Another blessing in my life has been working so closely with President Gordon B. Hinckley. Over the past nine years the Church has gone from having 51 temples to 124 temples. This miracle has strengthened my faith and helped me understand the importance of temples.
In 1998 we had 51 temples operating and 17 being built. Then in general conference, President Hinckley said that we needed to have 100 temples by the end of the year 2000.1 It meant 32 new temples would be built in addition to the 17 already in process. We thought it was an impossible task. But nothing is impossible when blessed by the Lord. It took many miracles to make it happen in that short time. Time and time again, things came together at just the right moment—miracles such as finding enough sod to lay on a temple property just hours before the dedication took place.
In the year 2000 there were 34 temples dedicated. That’s the most that have ever been dedicated in one year in the history of this world. President Hinckley was inspired to build more temples. Then the Lord magnificently blessed us and helped that happen because He honors His prophets. I hope you honor the prophets too. And I hope you will always value and prepare for temple blessings.

“They never told us any of this in the MTC,” was all I could think of as I followed my companion down a dismal Düsseldorf side street, shuffling my frozen feet through the dirty snow as I went.
Less than a week before, I had left the Missionary Training Center after two intense but glorious months filled with grammar and vocabulary, discussions and scriptures, and a growing recognition of the workings of the Spirit. Still ringing in my ears were countless stories from teachers and General Authorities of the immeasurable joy that awaited me in the mission field and of the way lives would change because of the message I carried.
As I tracted that day I felt betrayed. The only changed life I could see was my own: changed from the comfort of Arizona sunshine to the misery of a German winter and from the freedom of my pre-mission existence to a life-style of exhausting physical work and infinite restrictions.
I wondered where all the joy could be as we climbed endless staircases to talk to people who didn’t want to talk to us. I wondered too, how the truth could possibly make a difference in the lives of those who shut their doors before hearing a complete sentence. Most of all I wondered where the promised Spirit was: the Spirit that softened the hearts of men like Alma and Saul, that guided missionaries like Ammon and Aaron to proclaim the right words to the right people, and that gave messengers like Abinadi and Samuel the Lamanite the strength of conviction and love for the people to carry on despite all persecution and rejection.
I felt no love for the people, no joy in the work, and no Spirit to comfort or inspire me. All I felt was an ever-increasing, completely foreign bitterness, and an aloneness I never knew existed.
As I fought back steamy tears and silent, choking sobs, I turned my thoughts to home, hoping to ease my desperation for even a second. In that frustrated, confused moment, a single picture unfolded in my mind. I saw my parents kneeling at their bedside, heads bowed and brows furrowed in prayer. Their words were for me. “Dear Father, bless our daughter. Keep her from discouragement and lead her in thy paths.”
As that picture faded, a hundred others tumbled one after the other into its place—pictures of six brothers and a sister; of relatives, friends, and ward members all bowed in prayer for me. I glanced at my watch and realized that it was early morning at home and that those earnest prayers were being said right then. And I knew, with undeniable clarity, that they were being answered right then as a feeling of drenching love and warmth dissolved every negative emotion from my soul. I sensed a powerful, glowing triangle, linking home and heaven and me.
I knew then, with a witness that comes only from the Spirit I had sought, that I was a part of a work not my own, but that of an omniscient, loving Father who sent his Son to show me the way. “I am the vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing” (John 15:5).
Snow still falls and doors still shut, but weekly letters bring a renewed assurance as I read “You are in our prayers,” for I know that each of those prayers ascends to the Source of all love and distills daily upon every servant in His vineyard.

For example, it wasn’t long after astronauts and cosmonauts orbited the earth that they realized ballpoint pens would not work in space. And so some very smart people went to work solving the problem. It took thousands of hours and millions of dollars, but in the end, they developed a pen that could write anywhere, in any temperature, and on nearly any surface. But how did the astronauts and cosmonauts get along until the problem was solved? They simply used a pencil.

As I was being introduced as a speaker recently, the person conducting politely mentioned some of my more prominent past Church callings, such as bishop, mission president, and member of a stake presidency. This brother was being gracious, but the thought occurred to me, why not introduce me as a ward mission leader (my current calling) or by some of my less-public callings?
I can honestly say that I felt the same guiding spirit in each calling, and each has been rewarding. I have always sought the Lord’s guidance in my callings, and never have I felt let down. I have concluded that the Lord delights to bless us—regardless of where we serve.

In Beach Haven, the outreach was directed at the large Samoan community there. The Church provided the Aeroview chapel and a host of volunteers from that ward. Lead partner there was The Fono which provides healthcare and education in the Auckland area. Volunteers also came from other organisations, including the Pacific Island Presbyterian Church.
Also taking part was Shanan Halbert, member of Parliament for Northcote, who was very complimentary of the collaborative spirit of the event.

Alexandra Gilbert felt a similar reassurance when she met President Gordon B. Hinckley at the dedication of the temple. The 14-year-old from the city of Alma says, “He wasn’t the President of the Church at the time, but now he is. He was going up the steps to go into the temple, and he paused and shook my hand and we chatted for just a moment. He’s very likable. I didn’t understand a lot, because he only spoke English to me. But I had a wonderful feeling about him. I’ll always remember meeting him, and I’ll remember that we have a living prophet.”

This Christmas seemed the worst ever. I longed for a BMX mountain bike like snowflakes want cold weather. My friend Simon had one for his 14th birthday last month. Cool blue and chrome with 15 gears. He’s always raving about riding through the Clent hills and forests, a couple of miles from our village in the central part of England.
But I didn’t get one. Instead my presents were a track suit, new skateboard, and the promise of a job starting the day after tomorrow. A paper round. A 6:00 A.M. paper round! I mean, how bad can things get?
Not only would I miss skimming over frosted hillsides at breathtaking speeds, but I would have to get up early, starting Wednesday. And it’s holiday time. Lying-in-bed time.
What were my parents thinking of? I can guess, of course. It’s all about working for things you badly want, so you’ll appreciate them. Old-fashioned nonsense if you ask me. Of course, I’d appreciate that bike. What could be more amazing than bombing into the distance along those mountain tracks? I’d be there every spare minute. Life can be mean at times.
It felt even more mean Wednesday morning. “Come on, Robert,” Mum whispered. “It’s quarter to six. Rise and shine. There’s porridge and hot black currant on the kitchen table.”
I couldn’t even focus properly. Surely this wasn’t for real. It’s liquorice black out there, freezing cold and lonely. The whole world’s asleep except for me—and my crazy Mum.
Breakfast didn’t taste too good. Lumpy porridge bounced in thick clumps as I stumbled onto our porch. Muffled in track suit, red jacket, white scarf, red woolly hat and boots, I felt like some undersized Santa.
“Now don’t forget houses 50 and 66 don’t want papers delivered,” Mum reminded, helping me stuff endless sheets into the dirty yellow bag.
I lifted the sagging load onto my shoulder. “Mum, I don’t want to sound weak or anything, but this is killing me. Have you felt the weight of these things?”
“Never mind, dear. Think of the muscles you’ll build. Here’s your skateboard. And remember, be quiet in the block of flats. Elderly people don’t like being wakened this early.”
“Huh!” I muttered, heading lopsidedly down the path. “They’re not the only ones.”
The first morning was painful. I never realized how many different letter box shapes there are. The wide ones move along with the newspaper. But others—I nearly lost my fingers a few times. Heavy gold ones that grab before the paper’s through are the worst. They look rich and splendid, but they grab.
I got quite a shock at one house. As I slid a paper through the wide chrome flap, I heard a snarling thud as a body hit the door, snatching the paper and just missing my fingers. A little shaken, I walked down the path and rode to the next house.
A muffled figure was climbing into his car. He turned as he heard me coming.
“Ah, there you are my lad.” The man actually sounded pleased to see me. No dogs. No fighting metal slits. Human hands to receive my offering.
“I hoped you’d arrive before I left for work.” His voice was soft, kindly. “We’ve been away, so we didn’t give our usual tip this year. Here, have this.” He put two pound coins into my hand in exchange for a paper. Two solid pounds. Brilliant!
“Thanks very much, sir.” I stood, open-mouthed, wondering if I should bow or shake his hand or something. But he was in the car and gone before I could move. I made mental notes never to take shortcuts over this man’s garden.
I moved on. With feet half iced and fingers black with ink, I began dreaming of earnings. Let’s see—if I get five pounds a week for sixteen weeks, in four months there will be enough for a secondhand bike. And I already have two pounds. I could almost smell spring sunshine and scorching tyres.
As six-thirty appeared, so did a lighter sky and household stirrings. I had ten houses to go before freedom. I never even saw the small lad until I reached his doorstep, because something else caught my eye. The newspaper fell open at page 4, and there, taking up a whole sheet of pictures, were bike adverts. Oh man, how my feet itched for those pedals. And look at those wheels!
The sound of sniveling brought my head up sharply. It was too cold for anyone to be sitting outside, let alone a little tot in his pyjamas.
“Hey, what’s up, mate?” I whispered, trying not to frighten him.
Lifting his brown curly head a moment, he wiped a sleeve across his face, like my youngest brother does when he’s trying to act braver than he feels. “Nothing much,” he said.
I knew he wasn’t telling the truth. I mean, pyjamas aren’t exactly outside gear, and that stone step can’t be the warmest place on earth.
I crouched at his level. “So why are you out here freezing?”
He squinted at me, as if weighing the friendship in my voice, then screwed up his face, pushing small fists at his eyes to stop the tears.
“Look kid,” I said, wondering how to get him inside without too much fuss. “It’s Christmas week. Don’t you want to go back in where it’s warm and play with your toys?”
Gulping sobs began shaking his body. Wrong line.
“Er … what’s your name?” I asked kindly.
His feet were curling sideways on the cold stone. I took off my hat, wrapping it around his purple toes. He half smiled. I put my scarf around his shoulders.
“I’m Jamie,” he said, “and … and … I wanted a bike for Christmas.”
You too, I thought.
“But my … my dad left home before Christmas came, and …”
Giving him a slightly grey tissue from the depths of my coat pocket, I nodded slowly and patted his arm. “You mean you didn’t have the bike after all?” I interrupted, feeling pleased at my cool detective instincts.
His big eyes looked up, reproaching me for being so dumb. “Yes, I did,” he exclaimed.
“Sorry,” I muttered, mystified. “Then why … ?”
“I was trying to tell you,” he interrupted. “You see, my mum got one for me. She thinks I think it was Santa, but I know it wasn’t ’cos I heard her talking on the phone. Anyway, all over Christmas I thunk and thunk. Dad used to take me to get her a present, but …” He scrubbed at fresh tears and hiccuped. “But this year no one did, and I didn’t have anything for her and …”
He stopped, and began shivering all over. I couldn’t think what to do next. Suppose he was getting pneumonia or something out here.
That’s when the brain wave arrived.
I touched his arm again. “Look, you get inside and sit by the window, watching. I’ll be back in 15 minutes.”
He rose to his feet, staring owlishly, one finger stuck in his mouth, his face filled with awe. He nudged open the front door and his voice sounded husky, wondering, as if magic were beginning. “What you going to do?”
“You’ll see,” I called, skating up the path.
By the time I’d finished the last delivery but one, I had second thoughts. Okay, so most of the shops are closed, but Dillons will be open already. It will take all of two pounds to get a present though. My dream bike slid into the distance. My subconscious dragged it back. I needed every penny. The kid won’t really expect to see me again. It was a stupid idea. He’ll be all right. He’ll soon forget.
I battled toward the final letter box … a gold one. As my cautious fingers outmanoeuvred the gleaming flap, I suddenly pictured Jamie’s pinched face gazing at me in wonder.
That did it. I slung the bag across my back and skated fast. Dillons looked warm, inviting. The box of chocolates came to £1.80.
I raced back to number 9, my skateboard taking bumps in harmony with my legs and feet. A strange bubbling was building inside me—and it definitely wasn’t the porridge.
Some massive clouds began unloading snow just then, but I could see Jamie’s window from several houses back. His nose was flattened against the glass, face squashed and goggle-eyed.
By the time I reached his door he was out on the step, bare feet wriggling, and eyes and mouth all but meeting in one huge grin.
“You forgot these,” he whispered, swapping my scarf and hat for the brightly wrapped box.
“What will you say to your mum?” I asked, catching his excitement.
“Happy Christmas!”
I nodded, “But where will you say the present came from?”
“Santa’s helper, of course.” He spoke the name firmly, the grin shouting pleasure and satisfaction.
I glanced down at my red jacket, feeling a little foolish. “Of course,” I muttered. “Who else?”
The door closed, but curiosity got the better of me. Gently lifting the letter flap, I peeped through. It was one of those scenes you know will stay in your mind forever.
Jamie was yelling, “Mum, Mum!” She came rushing from the kitchen. As she received her gift, both their faces shared a kind of glow, as if some magnetic power were zapping back and forth.
I could almost touch the joy. My inside felt odd once more—happily odd—as if something were melting deep down, melting and spreading upwards until it reached my throat.
The scene blurred. I had to swallow hard. Softly letting down the flap, I tiptoed back to the pavement.

I have been touched to learn of the goodness of five young LDS students from Idaho who recently drowned in a terrible accident. They were known by their peers and in their communities for living standards of righteousness and being sterling examples of virtue and wholesomeness. These youth knew they were sons and daughters of God.

I will always be grateful to a woman in Kenya, Africa, who taught me about willingness to work to obtain water. I met her at a celebration following the installation of a well in her community. With gratitude she told me that the new well would cut her daily nine-mile (14 km) trip to get water to a one-mile (1.6 km) trip. She was overjoyed at the opportunities that would now be hers.
I couldn’t help but think how I would feel if I had to walk a mile to get water. I was impressed that she put everything—from housework to gardening—aside while she made her journey to fetch water. She knew she couldn’t complete the other tasks without that water. I thought about how heavy her burden was. Carrying water takes strength and endurance. Yet, for the sake of her family, she was willing to walk nine miles every day to get it.

My young friend whom I’ll call Lindsey needed hope. She lived in a home which was devoid of the Spirit and of love. Her friends were wild, and even most of her Young Women leaders looked on her only as a “project.” But deep inside she felt that the Lord loved her, despite her deplorable situation. She focused on always remembering Him. She chose not to participate with her friends when they did bad things. She tried to worship Heavenly Father in the privacy of her own bedroom because she wanted to feel His Spirit in her life. Something in her wanted to be good, to keep His commandments. Even with her limited knowledge and lack of outside help, she was trying to keep her baptismal covenants. She felt hope to carry on, and she felt love from Heavenly Father.

Like the Saints in Missouri, Lindsey knew that in spite of her deplorable conditions, Heavenly Father hadn’t given up on her. His love was firm. She took comfort in the “immutable covenant” of His love—that “all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good” (D&C 98:3). As with Abraham, hers was not an easy path to walk, yet she pressed forward. As she did so, she found help. One special Church leader loved and guided her. She grew closer to Heavenly Father and eventually found a young man who loved her, taught her much about the gospel, and married her.

At last many of the blessings she had longed for earlier in life were poured out upon her. She found she could have the Spirit in her own family and raise righteous children. Where once she was isolated and neglected, she now feels enveloped by love. This has come from pressing forward while waiting patiently on the Lord. Being steadfast in Christ brought hope to Lindsey as it will to each of us as we struggle with life’s challenges. The words the choir sings tonight will encourage us to come unto Him:

I have always believed in revelations, and I know with no iota of doubt that the Prophet Russell M. Nelson had that revelation to talk to us so much that he had to deliver the talk amidst all the pains he was going through. “Think Celestial,” touched a lot of hearts including mine. I am grateful for the prophets, and I know they are called of God.

Daniel loves the Friend and always wants to try out the recipes. One night while his dad and older siblings were at church activities, he made chocolate-dipped bananas (from the July 2012 issue) with his mom.

One of the most important days of my life was the day I was baptized. I was forty years old. The missionaries had knocked on my family’s door in Brazil. We were taught by the best missionaries in the world! Whenever I read in the Book of Mormon about the sons of Mosiah, who were such powerful missionaries, I think of Elder Hansen and Elder Furness. They were well-groomed, so it was easy for us to invite them into our home. They were well educated and polite. They had beautiful smiles and a good spirit with them. I love those missionaries who taught me to know the Lord.
After I was baptized, they placed their hands on my head to confirm me. I cried a lot because I had never had such a wonderful feeling. And I have had this same wonderful feeling ever since.

Temples are where many of these sacred ordinances occur and are also a source of peaceful refuge from the world. Those who visit temple grounds or participate in temple open houses also feel this peace. One experience preeminent in my mind is the Suva Fiji Temple open house and dedication. There had been political upheaval resulting in rebels burning and looting downtown Suva, occupying the houses of Parliament and holding legislators hostage. The country was under martial law. The Fiji military gave the Church limited permission to assemble people for the open house and a very small group for the dedication. The members as a whole were uninvited due to concerns for their safety. It was the only temple dedication since the original Nauvoo Temple that was held under very difficult circumstances.
One person invited to the open house was a lovely Hindu woman of Indian descent, a member of Parliament who was initially held hostage but was released because she was female.
In the celestial room, free from the turmoil of the world, she dissolved in tears as she expressed feelings of peace that overwhelmed her. She felt the Holy Ghost comforting and bearing witness of the sacred nature of the temple.

As children living in Argentina, Andrea Veronica Muñoz and her older sister attended a Catholic school. They had never been exposed to other religious teachings until Andrea was nine years old. That’s when Latter-day Saint missionaries began teaching her family about the restored gospel.
Soon after the missionaries finished their lesson and left, Andrea’s mother explained that there was more than just one religion. Andrea asked her mother what church she thought best represented God. Her mother replied, “I think it is this one”—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, about which the missionaries had just taught them.
All her life, Andrea had always “wanted to please God,” so she worried about embracing a new faith. The feeling lasted only a few minutes, however, and was replaced by a desire to learn more about the Church.
The family was baptized, “and we started a new life,” Sister Spannaus said. “It was really wonderful the way our family life changed for all of us.”

After I graduated from high school, I went to BYU. In my freshman English class I was assigned to write an essay about a time when I overcame a conflict. I chose to write about my relationship with Bruce. It was a very difficult paper to write, but after I did, I felt better.

A few months later I was asked to give a talk in my ward on repentance. I decided to share the story I had written. My mother and Bruce weren’t going to be able to make it. I was actually quite relieved to find out they weren’t going to be there. Then just before I was supposed to give my talk, my mother and Bruce slipped into the back of the chapel. My heart started to beat wildly. I felt like I was going to cry. I had to pull it together. What was I going to do?

After a few minutes into my talk, I began to read my story, and as I did, tears came streaming down my face. I paused, took a deep breath, and continued to cry throughout the rest of my talk. When I finished, I looked over at my mom and Bruce. They were both teary-eyed and sniffling. After church Bruce came up to me and told me he was so sorry. He said he hadn’t realized what I had been going through. He told me that he was sorry, whereas I was the one who had done all of the terrible things. I quickly told him that I was sorry and that I hoped he could forgive me. The beautiful part was that he had already forgiven me. I didn’t even have to ask.