Gospel Story Finder

When my sister was single and struggling with dating, she realized she might be making this mistake. So she drew a simple picture of her desired partner:
A stick figure with three—only three—of the most important attributes she wanted in a husband. No height requirements, no six-figure salary quota.
Within several months she started dating her future spouse. He was dedicated to the gospel, hardworking, and honest. Together they are working to create an eternal marriage.

When the family returned home and began rebuilding their lives, this Japanese woman started searching for answers about God. She gradually kindled a belief in Jesus Christ and the need to be baptized. However, she was concerned about her loved ones who had died without a knowledge of Jesus Christ and baptism, including her mother, who died giving birth to her.
Imagine her joy when two sister missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to her house one day and taught her that people can learn about Jesus Christ in the spirit world. She was captivated by the teaching that her parents could choose to follow Jesus Christ after death and accept baptism performed on their behalf in holy places called temples. She and her family were converted to the Savior and baptized.

Yoshio and Kikuno Nishihara exemplified what they preached as their children were growing up. Satoshi remembers well an argument with his mother when he was young; it was resolved when she asked him to kneel and pray with her. That was a sweet learning experience. Now it comes naturally for Satoshi to counsel and pray with his own wife, Noriko, and their children in handling family business. They handled one recent decision this way after a family fast; as they prayed together and as he listened to his wife and children express their feelings, it became clear to him what the family should do.

In a desert region one day, a number of travelers set out on a trip. It was hot and the journey was long. They had little in common except their shared desire to arrive at a distant city. Each carried provisions and water expecting to replenish their supplies along the way. Not long after leaving their homes, a great storm arose. Dust clouds darkened the sun, and the wind brought swirling sands which quickly filled the low places in the road. What at first had seemed a pleasant outing suddenly became a hazardous undertaking. The travelers soon realized that the question was not merely when they would arrive at the city, but whether they would arrive at all.
Confusion and doubt affected the company. Some sought shelter, while others attempted to turn back. A few moved onward through the storm. The end of the first day found them scattered, with inadequate provisions, wanting water, and lost in the desert. A new day brought hunger, thirst, and despair. The storm still raged. Hope was in short supply. Familiar landmarks were gone. The road, which had been narrow and hard to find, at best, was hidden by silt and debris. No one knew where to go to find it. Many claimed to know the way, but as they could not agree, each traveler wandered in his own way in search of water or the shelter of a settlement.
At the end of yet another day, two of the group, half-blinded by dust and with their strength nearly gone, came unexpectedly, with something more than good fortune, upon an inn and way station. There in the sanctuary of walls and roof, they refreshed themselves and counted their blessings. There they replenished their stores and contemplated the remaining portion of their journey. The weather remained unsettled. The wind continued to blow. The poorly marked road wound ahead through hills where the sand piled deep and where it was said that robbers sometimes preyed upon unsuspecting travelers.
One of the two was anxious to reach his destination. He had important business in the city. He gathered his supplies and water and paid his account. Early in the morning he set out in haste in an attempt to cross the hill country by nightfall. But the windblown sand had blocked the road. He was forced to dig and detour. When night came, he was far from the city, exhausted and alone. When he fell asleep, thieves found him, took his supplies, and left him without strength and without water to face almost certain death.
The second traveler was also desirous of reaching his destination. But he remembered the others in the desert behind him. They were lost and would soon perish without water and without hope. He alone knew where they were. He alone knew their condition and their need. He likewise arose early and paid his account. He glanced at the hills with their promise of the city beyond, and then turned back down the road whence he had come. The sky was a little lighter now. He recognized some of the landmarks. He knew about where he had left his traveling companions. He called out to them by name, for he knew them. After hours of patient searching, he found many of them. He shared with them life-giving water from his own containers. He told them he knew the way. He spoke as if he had authority, so they followed him, and he brought them to the way station with him. There they rested and regained their strength. They were given directions regarding how to reach the city. They renewed their provisions, filled their water containers, and went out again to face the storm.
The journey was still difficult. The wind still blew and clouds obscured the sun. The road still wound through the sometimes deep sand, and thieves were still in the hills. But this time the traveler was not alone. The group was large. When sand blocked the way, work parties were organized to remove it. When some faltered, the strong shouldered the burdens of the weak. When night came, there were watchmen to man the watch. After many days, the second man and his friends arrived safely at their destination.
When they arrived there, those who had been rescued and given water gathered around the second traveler and said, “We could not have come to this place without you. We shall ever be grateful to you for searching for us, for finding us, for sharing your water and your bread. We know that you put aside your own journey and submitted to the hardships of the desert in order to help us when we were lost. What can we do to repay you?”
And the second man replied, “Thank me not, for by no power of my own did I find the way station. The water there would have been bitter had I not shared it with you. I know that I could not have arrived at the city without you. Your strength and encouragement enabled me to continue on. Your presence prevented robbers from attacking. I have come to realize that in order to save my own life, I had to save yours as well. I know now that it is not so much the haste of one’s journey but rather what he does along the way which determines whether he will arrive at his destination. Thank me not,” he said. “In truth, I have not brought you to this place, we have brought one another.”

When I reached marriageable age, I got to know my future husband was from Mumbai. Since Mumbai is a large city, I imagined that my life there might include a comfortable home with a garden, flowers, and a balcony. As it was an arranged marriage, I accepted God’s will and married him. Soon afterward, I had to say goodbye to my family, which was exceedingly difficult for me. Many emotions and thoughts filled my heart as I left my home.
After arriving in Mumbai, I was surprised to find that my husband and I lived in a slum in an exceedingly small and overcrowded house where even fresh air could barely pass through. Married life began with many challenges. I did not know the local language, Hindi, which made communication exceedingly difficult. Every day, I had to walk two hundred meters to fetch water and carry it home in vessels. My husband left for work early in the morning at 7:00 a.m. and returned late at night around 9:00 p.m. every day. I spent my days doing household chores from morning until night. During this difficult period, I gradually stopped praying and studying the scriptures. Life became increasingly challenging, and my husband did not follow the Word of Wisdom or attend church regularly. Many trials and afflictions arose, and I began to feel abandoned and wondered why God had brought me there.
One Sunday during a Bible study at church, I turned the pages of the Bible and read Proverbs 3:1–2, which teaches that obedience brings peace and long life. As I studied these verses, my heart was filled with the Spirit, and I felt a burning feeling within me that brought tears to my eyes. I began to reflect on the life of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Though He suffered many trials and was falsely accused, He never forgot God. Even in His last moments, He obeyed Heavenly Father. Though He lived a sinless life, He fulfilled the Father’s will by sacrificing His life so that we might return to our Heavenly Father.
Through His Atonement, we are given the opportunity to repent and strive to obey Him. I understood that obedience truly brings peace and happiness. From that time onward, I began praying again, studying the scriptures, and living the gospel through obedience. Gradually, I helped my husband through the gospel to keep the Word of Wisdom, participate in family prayer, and live Christ’s teachings. Later, I was blessed with two children, which brought great peace and joy into my life. My husband lovingly cared for me during and after my pregnancies. As our children grew, we taught them the importance of obeying the gospel.

Jan Bishop from Montclair, New Jersey, was one of the Ambassadors for Friendship sent to Czechoslovakia by the American Council for Nationalities Service in New York last year. There she performed as part of her high school’s Madrigal Choir. But that was not the end of her Czechoslovakian experience. Once the group had returned, all were challenged to write a letter to President Nixon telling him of their experiences there. The letters were first judged by a panel of prominent Americans and then bound and sent to the president. Jan’s letter was chosen as the winner. “I am active in the Mormon Church,” she said in her letter, “and I was curious to learn about Church membership there, hopefully to attend meetings and speak to members in Europe. After writing to the Church Regional Representative for the iron curtain countries, I learned that our church is banned and under police indictment there. Never in my life have I had such a disturbing experience with something so important to me as religion. I was disturbed that any government could assume they have the right to deny a human being those things that are so basic to his nature. I cried for the people that were denied such an important right, but I became very appreciative of America because of this. Freedoms of every kind are mine: speech, press, travel, religion, and many others. Many young Americans are dissenting because America has failed the people. I think they have failed America. There are people in parts of the world who would just like to see other parts of the world and can’t.”
Jan is active in the Church and has served as Junior Sunday School chorister and pianist for the MIA.

When she awoke the old woman was immediately alert. From her bed on the dirt floor she looked toward the east window, trying to guess the time by the amount of light seeping through the cracks around the curtain. My sister the sun must be lazy today, she decided, throwing the blankets off. The Two Who Have Something to Say had stayed quite late last night, talking and answering questions, and perhaps she had overslept. At the window next to the door she saw gray clouds sitting where the sunrise should have been. She must get the sheep out soon. Late October was too early for a very big storm, she reasoned as she rolled up the bedding.
Quickly she washed at the washstand below the window, then stoked the potbellied stove, and put a kettle of water on to boil. From a cloth bundle on the metal cabinet near the stove she took a large piece of fry bread and placed it on the warm edge of the stove top.
After changing from her night dress into a long, full-tiered skirt and velvet blouse, anklets and oxfords, she paused by the overstuffed chair to tidy things. The Two Who Have Something to Say had left some small booklets for her to read and a larger, thicker volume with a blue cover. There was a picture of a gold statue on it, a man blowing a long horn. “The Book of Mormon,” the lettering read.
Next to the armchair was an apple-box bookcase, overflowing with her beloved books. Raymond, her youngest son, had promised seven years ago to replace the boxes with real shelves, but he was married now and lived across the wash to the west, about a mile from the highway. He had a demanding wife, and they were both drinking. The old woman knew she would never have another bookcase. She sighed when she thought of Raymond.
The whistling teakettle called her to the stove. From the metal cabinet she took a box of tea bags. Then she remembered the Fair One with Sky in His Eyes had said “Sister Ashton, tea isn’t good for you every day. It should be used only as a medicine.” It surprised her.
“Why should it matter?” she had asked. “I am an old woman. Will God deny a small pleasure?” He had smiled as he replied, “To obey is not a small thing.” She put the box back into the cupboard.
Instead, she put sugar and evaporated milk in the hot water and found that it warmed her just as well. The warmed-over fry bread tasted good. She thought of last night, sharing it with the Two Who Have Something to Say. The Fair One with Sky in His Eyes, whose name was Elder Wilson, told her of a prophet, Joseph Smith, and the book that contained a history of her people. The missionaries she had known as a girl, the Ones Who Wear Long Coats, had told her some confusing things, and the Ones Who Wear Short Coats had baffled her as well, although nothing as curious as this.
These young men, these Mormons, spoke of things that touched her soul deeply. They told her how her family could be together again in another life because of Jesus, why she must learn this new law of health, and that a man who spoke with heaven was at the head of the Church. As they left after the meal and the talk and the prayers, she had said, “You speak of many hopeful things, but I am an old woman, perhaps too old to change my ways.” The taller one, Elder Jordan, had replied, “Sister Ashton, our Father in Heaven loves you and wants you to become as a little child and follow him.” He gestured toward the shelves. “Your many books may bring you great knowledge and the wisdom of this world, but they can never give you peace of mind.” After assuring her that they would return in a few days, they went out into the night. They are only young men, but they are as wise as grandfathers, she marveled as she heard their car move slowly out of her yard.
When the old woman had finished eating, she brushed her hair and wound it into a knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with a piece of silver hair jewelry encrusted with turquoise. Then she placed her bedroll by the loom in the unheated part of the hogan, which was separated by blankets hanging over the poles that supported the thick dirt roof. Hanging on the wall along the south side of the hogan, obscured by the blankets from the rest of the room, were pictures of her family—Alvin in his Army uniform, Evelyn at her wedding, Patrick’s twins, Priscilla’s high school graduating class, even her husband Tom a year before his death.
She lingered over the last picture of her seven children taken three years ago at the Navajo Fair in Window Rock. That was before Jonathan’s death in an auto accident on the Shiprock Road. Her daughter Donna was married to a white man from Holbrook, and he always took pictures. At first the old woman thought it was silly, but now, seeing Jonathan again, she was glad. Beside the picture hung a piece of paper in a metal frame: “This is to certify that Jonathan Ashton has earned the Doctor of Medicine degree and is qualified to practice.” She did not know which was the greater sadness, Raymond’s drinking or Jonathan’s young life wasted. As she took her wool blanket off a hanger dangling from a nail on the wall, she wondered if Jonathan would have approved of the Two Who Have Something to Say.
Outside the door, the woman adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, took the staff she had left leaning against the hogan yesterday, and made her way along the well-worn paths around the clumps of sagebrush and cactus toward the corral. My sister the sun is still hiding, she thought, but in the fall she often plays this game. The clouds in the west looked as if they would soon disperse.
The corral was far enough south of the hogan that the old woman couldn’t hear the sheep until she was halfway there. There were 50 in the herd now, including 15 lambs which would bring a good price at the market next spring. The rest would be ready for shearing by then, too. She was already planning how to spend the money. Some would go to Jonathan’s son, Edward, at school in Phoenix; she had great hopes for him. And some would go for a book about needlework.
The corral, some 20 feet square, was made of poles three to four inches in diameter. There was a gate on the north side. The entire structure looked flimsy and ill-suited to its purpose, but as long as the bellwether was with them, the rest of the sheep stayed, even if the gate was open. A large stack of baled hay stood on the east side, far enough away so the sheep couldn’t nibble at it through the fence.
Now that her own children were grown, the old woman sometimes thought of the sheep as her children, and she greeted them with terms of endearment. Some even had names. The bellwether was Hozhoji—“happiness.” He was sure and dependable, knew where to lead the herd almost before she directed him, and when she was tired at the end of the day, he knew the way home. He made her happy.
As she opened the gate, the bellwether nuzzled her hand, then hurried on to take his place at the lead, his bell clanging with authority. He started north, but she stopped him and turned the herd south. The area near the spring had the best pasture, and it was only a few miles away.
As she walked, she noted the condition of the sky, listened to the jays chatter and scream at each other from the junipers along the way, and laughed at the clumsy lambs trying to catch their mothers immobile and get a few gulps of milk. After two miles they crossed the rutted road, continued another mile till they came to a slight incline. From the top she could see the spring in the valley below. The sheep could smell the water and hurried down to drink and then feed on the succulent greenery nearby. A rock outcropping about halfway down the hill made a perfect vantage point for watching all the sheep as they grazed. My mother the earth is very generous, the old woman thought, as she made her way to the rock. The spring and summer had brought more rain than usual, and the pasture was rich.
Sitting there, the old woman could see south toward the dry river bed, wandering aimlessly, following the path of least resistance. It was probably three miles across the valley floor to the red clay cliffs on the other side. The few cedars growing in the valley seemed lonely. The scene was still as an oil painting, but the old woman knew this high desert land was teeming with jackrabbits, small rodents, snakes, and even deer and antelope who crept down to the spring from their hiding places in the thick undergrowth higher up. Three miles northeast, hidden behind the end of the mesa, was a trading post. The old woman could hear the wind and the faint bleating of the sheep, but nothing else.
She found herself thinking again of the Two Who Have Something to Say and anticipating their next visit. The young men seemed so certain of what they said. Whenever they spoke of the book with the blue cover they said, “I know,” as if the knowing were a secret waiting to be discovered. But they told her how they could be so sure. “I have prayed, Sister Ashton,” Elder Jordan said, “and the answer came with such power I can never deny it.” Elder Wilson added, “Our Father knows what we need, but he waits for us to ask before he gives it.”
She could not explain why she was so moved by what these young men said. She had studied other religions before. Many years ago when she attended a Christian boarding school near Ganado, nothing any of the priests or ministers said ever affected her this way. Now she was an old woman, sure of herself, wise, experienced. Being a grandmother satisfied her; her opinions were always sought, always important. If she went the way of the Mormons, it would be like starting all over again in many ways. Her children and grandchildren might think that her mind had slipped away from her and that she had become foolish. Anyway, she hadn’t even read their book yet. And she was an old woman. Perhaps …
A sudden gust of strong wind broke the old woman’s reverie. She stood to judge the northern sky and saw black, puffy clouds billowing over the hill behind her, almost near enough to touch. Never had she seen a storm move so fast. Fearful for the lambs, she hurried down the hill, calling for Hozhoji as she went. He was obedient, but some of the other sheep were reluctant to leave and had to be prodded on their way. By the time she had disengaged the last lamb, the bellwether was at the top of the hill and setting a brisk pace. Anxious and panting, but not daring to stop and catch her breath, the old woman hurried on behind the sheep. As snowflakes began to fall, the wind got stronger. Some of the sheep stopped here and there to graze, but she scolded them like a mother with naughty children, and they scurried on.
The flakes thickened, the wind began to howl, and the old woman’s anxiety grew. Then suddenly she was within sight of the corral, and Hozhoji was leading the herd inside. Now they were safe. A quick head count told her all were there. She counted the lambs twice to be sure and closed the gate. Before she had taken three steps she realized that if the storm were to last very long, she might not be able to get out to feed them. She dragged a bale of hay from the stack, opened the gate and pushed it into the corral. The sheep were settled and quiet now, huddled together for protection. By the time she had struggled the second bale into the corral, the storm was directly upon her, snowflakes pelting her face and stinging with the force of the wind. She counted the sheep once more, made sure the gate was closed securely, and began her journey to the hogan, planning carefully as she made her way through the swirling flakes.
The south side of the corral was no longer visible. She tried to remember small landmarks along the way, but one clump of sagebrush soon began to look like another and she was no longer sure. Hoping to reorient herself, she turned toward the corral, but in turning she stumbled and fell. When she recovered she was alone in the blizzard, unable to see beyond the length of her arm. She knelt there trying to think clearly. She knew she was on the north side of the corral, and if she went straight north she would come to the hogan. But which way was north? A little to the left? Slightly to the right? Too much one way or the other and she might miss the hogan and wander for hours, perhaps in circles, perhaps passing near a sheltered place but not being able to see it.
In a subtle flash, the face of the Fair One with Sky in His Eyes came into her mind. “Our Father in Heaven loves you … become as a little child,” he was saying. But I am a grandmother, she thought. “Little child … little child,” his voice echoed again. She bowed her head.
“Oh Lord,” she whispered through the furious gale, “I am lost. Never have I been lost before. Only you can see through this storm. I know you love all living things, but if you want me to live, you will have to guide me home. You are the only way I can get there.”
Suddenly, in the midst of the storm, she was calm. It was as if a hand had touched her shoulder, for an overwhelming warmth ran through her. Then there was a sound at her side, and she turned to find the bellwether.
“Hozhoji!” she cried. Puzzled for a moment, she hugged the ram’s woolly neck. She distinctly remembered locking the gate. He tossed his head restlessly and nudged her hand. Then she understood.
“He sent you!” she whispered.
She got to her feet, fixed her fingers firmly around the bell strap, and patted the sheep. “Take me home, Hozhoji.”
Carefully, instinctively, the sheep led her to the hogan door, then disappeared into the storm.
Once inside, the woman dropped the blanket from her shoulders. The deep lines of her wrinkled, leathery face seemed to lift and brighten. Never had she felt so loved. Briefly she saw the face of Elder Wilson saying, “Our Father knows what we need, but he waits for us to ask.” Sinking to her knees, she whispered a prayer of thanksgiving.
“Oh God! Praise God! I feel you near me, my Father! Jesus, my Brother, I know you now!” And she put her face in her hands and wept.
Presently the weeping ceased. The old woman dried her tears. Then she arose, went to the old overstuffed chair, and sat down to read the book with the blue cover.

When I was struggling with my decision about whether to serve a mission, I spent some time every day by myself reading and studying, pondering and praying, and gaining a witness that what I was about to do was right.
I remember being alone in a peaceful setting. I knelt down and prayed to know if going on a mission was the right thing to do. It felt good to me. I had been through a period of personal torment on what to do, and after the cumulative effort of pondering and praying, I received a feeling of peace in my mind and heart. It was like the counsel that Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery received from the Lord, “Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter” (D&C 6:23).
We didn’t have Preach My Gospel, but I read the Book of Mormon cover to cover and gained a personal witness of my Savior Jesus Christ. I also had the old basic missionary outline of seven discussions, and I decided to commit those principles to memory. I wanted to connect the doctrine to the principles in the discussions, and I found it was easier to do if I had a foundation of scriptures to rely on. I realized that four elements are vital to gain spiritual strength: ponder, pray, perform, and then persevere.

The day our oldest son died in an accident, the loss opened a piercing wound in my soul. Yet I knew I could count on the Savior’s atoning power to help carry my heavy burden of sorrow and pain. My husband and I asked our home teachers to give each of us a blessing. We knew strength would come to us beyond our own. Our Savior has promised He will not leave us comfortless (see John 14:18). I have clung with an iron grip to that promise and testify that so has He.
Despite the heartache, I have experienced a constant underlying river of peace that flows from the Savior (see 1 Nephi 20:18). At particularly hard moments, days, or even weeks, His peace has carried away my sadness. I have but to ask for it. Heavenly Father doesn’t want us to go through mortality alone.
As I reflect on the accident that took my son’s life, an Old Testament account comes to mind:
“Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of thine hand, O king.
“But if not, be it known unto thee, O king, that we will not serve thy gods” (Daniel 3:17–18; emphasis added).
The important part is “But if not.” We must keep the faith no matter what happens. Heavenly Father could have sent angels to carry my son out of harm’s way, but He didn’t. He knows what it will take to sanctify us so we can be prepared to come home to Him. Everything will turn out OK. But that doesn’t mean we will never mourn or cry again. Our mourning is a result of our love, but our hearts don’t have to be troubled.

Four-year-old Hannah’s eyes popped open. Today was zoo day! She jumped out of bed.
“I’m ready,” she called.
“Ready for what?” Mom asked.
“Ready for the zoo!”
“Go look in the kitchen first,” Mom said.
Hannah hurried to the kitchen. There was an empty bowl on the table. Then Hannah remembered. Breakfast came before the zoo.
After Hannah ate, she handed Mom her bowl. “I’m ready now.”
“I don’t think so,” Mom said. “Go look in the mirror.”
Hannah ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her hair was tangled, and she had a big white milk mustache. Hannah grabbed a cloth and washed her face. Then she brushed her teeth and combed her hair.
“Now I’m ready,” she called.
“Not yet,” Mom said. “Look in your bedroom for something Grandma sent you!”
Hannah ran to her room. A new dress was on her bed. It was white with red cherries on it. Red was her favorite color. But Hannah frowned.
“It doesn’t have any sleeves,” she said.
Mom went to Hannah’s closet. She pulled out a bright red T-shirt that matched the bright red cherries.
“You can wear this under the dress,” Mom said. “Then it will be modest.”
Hannah quickly put the T-shirt on and then the dress.
“Now I am ready to go to the zoo!”
“Yes,” Mom said and smiled. “Now you are ready.”

My journey into family history began with a sense of curiosity and amazement. I first encountered FamilySearch during a class in the Tema Ghana Stake Gathering Place led by the inspiring Sister Betsy Thornton. In that class, I took a leap of faith and began to explore my family tree. The moment I added my family name, Mentee, into the FamilySearch.org/Africa platform and searched for it in my home country, Liberia, I was amazed by what I discovered. It felt like a door to the past had opened, giving me a glimpse into the incredible journey of my ancestors.
The following week, Sister Thornton approached me and asked if I would be willing to share a little about my family history with the class. I was deeply honored and excited to have been chosen for this task. It gave me a sense of pride and responsibility to represent my family’s story.
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.

One night, my family and some friends had a family home evening. We had the lesson and the closing prayer, and then had a treat. When it was time for our friends to leave, my mom and I told one of my friends about the Friend magazine. She is taking discussions from the missionaries and hadn’t heard about the Friend, so I let her look through it. She really liked it. I let her have the August 2007 Friend. I’m glad that I can share the gospel with others.

One day I witnessed evidence of the Spirit and the courage to follow counsel. It was in a second grade elementary classroom. The student-teacher held the children captive with her storytelling skills. In great detail she told of a cross old man whose name was Mr. Black. In contrast, the account was given in similar detail of a Mr. Brown who was kind and thoughtful and loved by everyone. At the conclusion of the story, the teacher asked the children, “How many of you would like to be a neighbor to Mr. Brown?” Every hand was raised high. Then almost as an afterthought, she inquired if there was anyone who would like to have Mr. Black for a neighbor.
A little boy in a faded green shirt near the back of the room began to raise his hand, which brought a ripple of quiet amusement from the children. Hesitating only briefly, he looked around at his friends and still mustered the courage to hold his hand high and to stand alone in his difference. When called on for an explanation to his single vote, he spoke in a soft tone. “Well,” he said, “I’d like Mr. Black to be my neighbor, because if he was, my mom would make a cake for me to take to him, and then he wouldn’t be that way anymore.” A hush fell over the room. Everyone felt something wonderful that they couldn’t explain. A little child broke the silence like a benediction: “Oh, I wish I’d said that!”
We had all made a quick decision about who would be the best neighbor, but only one, just one, had a spirit within, a discernment that allowed him to see what might be.

People have asked me, “Why do you do this every week?” My answer is that my family started this habit a long time ago. I’m the youngest of 12 kids, and for as long as I can remember I’ve seen my mom coming home from the early Saturday morning temple session. She promised Heavenly Father that if she ever lived near a temple she would go often (for her, once a week), and she has kept her promise ever since my family moved close to a temple many years ago.

I first started fasting after my 11th birthday. My mum and dad had given me a brief explanation of it and how we do not eat our meals and then pay the Lord the equivalent of the food we did not eat, plus a generous offering. At first, I was confused. Why should I resist the temptation when I could just sneak to the kitchen and grab some cookies? At long last, I told my parents that I couldn’t go on. They agreed and said I could break my short, two-hour fast.
I began preparing for the next fast. Reading scriptures like Alma 5:46 and Helaman 3:35 really helped. During my second fast, I was able to bear missing up to two meals. When I felt the temptation, I resisted it by thinking of my Father above and how He sacrificed His Son for us. I reminded myself that I was showing my gratitude to Him by sacrificing, too. Fasting built a stronger and more sure testimony for me. I was confident enough to stand at the pulpit, and bear my testimony. I learnt how to be humble, strong, faithful, and diligent. Fasting definitely helped me in my school and social life, making me aware of the world and Satan.
Now I have grown to love fasting, which helps me so much in my life. I love bearing my testimony on fast Sunday. The feeling is wonderful, and the Spirit is with me. I didn’t starve—I fasted.

One of the most cherished relationships we developed was with the Ahmadiyya Muslim Association. Without a building of their own, they have used our meetinghouse for several events and have become close friends of our members. A highlight was a youth evening where their young people met with ours to talk about our respective beliefs, share experiences and enjoy sports and games together. The unity and joy felt that evening were so powerful that we plan to make it a regular event.

Colt Mattice of the Pinetop-Lakeside Fourth Ward, Pinetop-Lakeside Arizona Stake, was thrilled to turn 12 for two reasons—he received the Aaronic Priesthood and became a Boy Scout. Although he has Down’s syndrome, Colt is very aware of the responsibilities he now has.
Shortly after Colt’s 12th birthday, a boy at Colt’s school fell and badly cut his head. At the accident scene, Colt told a teacher, “I need to help the boy. I am a Boy Scout and a priesthood holder.” The teacher convinced Colt that the boy was being well cared for. As she began walking with Colt back to class, she was surprised to see him stop and, with tears running down his face, kneel down and utter a prayer for the hurt boy. The teacher later told a Church leader that she appreciated Colt’s example and could feel God’s presence all around her as she listened to Colt pray.

As in Christ’s time, some people in our day are not blessed with the actual gift of sight. There was a blind man who, in an effort to sustain himself, sat day after day in his usual place at the edge of a busy sidewalk in a large city. In one hand he held an old felt hat filled with pencils. A tin cup was extended by the other hand. His simple appeal to the passer-by was brief and to the point. It had a certain finality to it, almost a tone of despair. The message was contained on the small sign held around his neck by a string. It read, “I am blind.”
Most did not stop to buy his pencils or to place a coin in the tin cup. They were too busy, too occupied by their own problems. That tin cup never had been filled, even half-filled. Then one beautiful spring day a man paused and added several new words to the shabby sign. No longer did it read, “I am blind.” Now the message read, “It is springtime, and I am blind.” The compassion of human feelings could not now be restrained. The cup was soon filled to overflowing. The coins, however, were a poor substitute for the desired ability to actually restore sight.

I carried a tray of food, prepared by my mother-in-law, into a cluttered and dusty home. The sole occupant sat where she always sat, on a big armchair positioned so she could see out the window. Her swollen legs were stretched in front of her and her cane, which she used only with great effort, leaned against her arm. She smiled when she saw me, thanked me for the food, and apologetically asked who I was. As I sat next to her and listened to her stories, I was filled with warmth and peace.
Three years later, I was on the floor with my two young children, bouncing them on my legs and singing a racehorse tune. Only a few feet away, my kitchen was in disarray and toys were scattered across the floor. I suddenly felt a reassurance from the Spirit that I was right where I needed to be. Warmth and peace flooded my soul, filling its worn edges and giving energy where there was none.
Another two years forward, I was lying on the bed. A pile of laundry was visible on the floor, and a stack of papers littered the desk to my left as I fed my newborn son for the fourth time that night. I brushed my fingertips against his long lashes, felt his soft bald head, and was thrilled when fingers curled around the lace of my shirt. I was so filled with warmth and peace that I didn’t even mind that I was sometimes awake at three in the morning.
In each of these cases, the Holy Ghost was with me, telling me I was in the right place and doing the right thing, and in each of these cases, I was in a messy home.
I still remember the shock I felt the first time I made this connection—I began questioning my experiences. After all, I had always thought growing up that the Holy Ghost doesn’t dwell in unclean places—so I took that to include dirty homes. And these thoughts were nearly always accompanied by a scriptural reference. We learn in 1 Nephi 10:21 that “no unclean thing can dwell with God.” And the Lord tells us in Doctrine and Covenants 88:124 to “cease to be idle; [and] cease to be unclean.”
The irony in all of this is that I missed the deeper meaning of these scriptures—the importance of keeping our personal temples, our minds and bodies, clean—and instead jumped straight to the physical meaning. I had somehow learned from all of these lessons that my worth as a young wife and mother was all wrapped up in how perfect and clean my house was—and the effect of that belief was devastating.
I was always paralyzed with fear when the state of my home was not so perfect. I often didn’t listen for whisperings from the Spirit because I would look around my apartment and think, “No, there’s no way the Spirit can dwell here.”
I can’t remember the exact moment I realized I could feel the Spirit in a home that fell far short from the temple’s standards of cleanliness. But I do remember when I realized that the Lord, with His infinite capacity for compassion and empathy, saw the less-than-perfect efforts I offered, accepted them, and still sent me the spiritual companionship I desperately needed. He doesn’t need me to be perfect right now—He just needs me to do the best I can.
It hasn’t happened overnight, but slowly I’ve let go of what Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles refers to as “toxic perfectionism” (see “Be Ye Therefore Perfect—Eventually,” Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2017, 42). I’ve started allowing myself to believe that I can have the Holy Ghost with me even if I don’t have the energy to stay up all night with a teething baby and keep up with the laundry. Instead, I make sure I give the best I can give, and I accept the love Heavenly Father sends in return. I haven’t given up on becoming a better homemaker, I just say yes to the grace and inspiration the Lord has been trying to give me for so long. Because when I keep myself spiritually clean and do what He asks me to do, the Holy Ghost comes, messy house or not.

As a new mission president in the fall of 2011, I was excited to be out among our missionaries. My wife, Emily, and I decided to do apartment inspections and visit every pair of missionaries in the mission.
As we traveled from Guatemala City to one of our more remote zones, known as Sololá, we learned that a demonstration was blocking the road in front of us. Demonstrations in Guatemala can take hours, and there is usually no way to get past them. But when we inquired about a possible detour, we learned of another route. That route, however, came with the following warnings:
It is not a great road.
Make sure you are not on the road after dark.
Bands of robbers frequent the road.
Like any zealous new mission president and wife, on Emily and I went. After driving a while, we came to a spot on a dirt road that looked like a steep drop-off in front of us. Emily joked that we should get the camera out and take pictures as we went over the edge.
Years earlier, when I was a young missionary in Guatemala, I had learned that a small branch dragged onto the road meant “proceed with caution.” It might even mean “stop.” I had seen a branch but failed to register what it meant.
A moment later, we found ourselves dangling off a 20-foot (6 m) ledge where a bridge had washed out. I managed to climb out my side, but Emily could not open her door. When she tried to climb over the seat and come out my door, the vehicle began to rock. Obviously, it was a very disconcerting moment.
Many thoughts ran through my mind. I could see the headlines: “New Mission President Drives over Embankment Where There Was No Bridge, Resulting in Severe Injury to Wife” or “New Mission President and Wife Missing after Being Robbed on a Road They Should Not Have Been Traveling on.”
Not knowing what to do, I paused outside the vehicle and pleaded with Heavenly Father, “Please help me in my moment of carelessness.” Can you believe that a large banana truck suddenly pulled up behind us? The driver and passengers saw us and came over to laugh and enjoy the predicament of the silly gringo. They pointed out the branch on the road. Literally, it was just a twig.
Then, to our miraculous blessing, they retrieved from their truck the only chain I saw in three years of service in Guatemala. Before they left, they cut down a tree and pulled it across the road. I think they wanted to make sure that the next North American to come by did not make the same mistake.