Gospel Story Finder

The borrowed white tablecloths and snowmen centerpieces gave the cultural hall a festive look as last-minute preparations were being made for our family Christmas party.
As we waited for our guests, my gaze drifted to a table where an empty jar—labeled “Sub for Santa”—sat. I prayed that by the end of the night, the jar would be full.
During our party preparations we had discovered that my cousin’s husband had been out of work for over a year and a half. Her family’s main source of income consisted of handling five paper routes, which required them to begin each day at 3:30 a.m. The majority of their income went to paying the mortgage and other necessities, leaving little for things they wanted, such as Christmas presents.
My cousin’s family was one of the first to arrive. I watched as they made their way toward the dining tables, past our Christmas jar. As they approached, my cousin’s husband stopped to read the sign on the jar. Without hesitating, he took out his worn wallet, pulled out a couple of dollars, and tossed them in the container, oblivious to who the family “in need” was.
Emotion welled up in my throat, and I instantly recalled the New Testament story of the widow and her two mites. Wealthy men were flaunting their large donations to the treasury when “there came a certain poor widow, and she threw in two mites” (see Mark 12:41–42).
No one would have blamed my cousin’s husband for walking past the jar thinking, “If I had I would give” (Mosiah 4:24). His great example of charity and love for his fellowmen touched not only me but also other members of my family who were watching him. I knew his family would be fine because “charity is the pure love of Christ, … and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him” (Moroni 7:47).
We had hoped to give his family something that night, which we did later on, but by giving in the midst of his own time of need, he showed us that when it came to what mattered most, he was already a rich man.

The moon was big and round and bright, just as it should be on the night of the Moon Festival. I held my glowing paper lantern higher, hoping that the Old Man in the Moon would see me amid the other children. The whole park gleamed with our brilliant Chinese lanterns.
I ran up the hill to where my parents and sisters sat on a blanket, eating moon cakes. My eldest sister, Mei Lai, was gazing at the moon. I knew that she was probably dreaming about that boy who took her to the dance last Saturday. That’s a girl for you! I thought. I’m glad that I’m not a girl.
Not that Mei Lai didn’t have a right to think about love tonight. Everyone thought about love during the Moon Festival, or Mid-Autumn Festival, the proper name that my sister preferred to call it. On this night the Old Man in the Moon supposedly wove an invisible red thread around couples who would one day get married.
Even I was thinking about love. But not that kind. I was thinking about how I could love my neighbors.
My Primary teacher had told us last Sunday that we should, and ever since then, I had been wondering how I could ever do it. I couldn’t think of any neighbors in our apartment building that I even liked—especially not that new boy down the hall! He didn’t even speak Chinese! The first time I saw him, I just kept looking at his eyes. I had never seen such blue eyes!
Once I had tried talking to him in the English that I was learning in school. “Where are you from?” I asked.
Looking at me oddly, he lifted up his large nose and declared, “I’m an Aussie.”
Whatever an Aussie was, I certainly didn’t know. I went home and asked Mei Lai, who knew English well.
“An Aussie is someone from Australia,” she told me.
My mother’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Sun Ling, it will soon be time to go home.”
“Oh, let me run once more through the park.”
“Well, you be careful with that lantern. Remember that you have a lighted candle in it.”
“I will.” As I sprinted down the hill, I looked up at the Old Man in the Moon to see if he was still watching me and my shining paper lantern. I ran and ran, with my eyes turned upward toward the beautiful full moon.
Suddenly—CRASH! Was it a wall? No, it was a body. Another person and I tumbled over and over each other. It was the Aussie. When we finally stopped, we raised our tousled heads and looked at each other. I blurted out, “What are you doing here? This is a Chinese holiday!”
It was a good thing that he couldn’t understand my Chinese. I indignantly grabbed my lantern, which miraculously lay unharmed on the grass. In my mind I grumbled, Even if I wasn’t looking where I was going, it wasn’t really my fault because he’s the one who doesn’t belong here.
A sizzle and a flare made us both jump up. His colorful paper lantern was in flames. My mother’s words flashed through my mind, “Be careful with that lantern.”
I looked at him. Then I tilted my head in amazement. There were tears in those blue, blue eyes! It had never occurred to me that an Aussie could cry too.
The boy’s lips began to quiver, and he said, “My dad gave me that Chinese lantern.”
I didn’t understand all his words, but I understood what he meant. And I felt awful! I tried to remember how to say I’m sorry in English, but all my words came out in Chinese.
Suddenly, in Chinese, he said, “I’m sorry too.”
I blinked with surprise. He did know some Chinese words. He smiled at me. I smiled back.
The next day I strode into the house, banging the door happily behind me.
“What’s that huge grin for?” Mei Lai asked.
“Oh, I’ve been learning to love my neighbor. Jim is my friend now.”
“Who’s Jim?” she asked.
“He’s the Aussie I told you about,” I replied, perching myself on a nearby stool. “Do you know what? Before he came here, Jim had never even heard of moon cakes. So I gave him one with an egg-yolk center. When he bit into it, he sort of wrinkled up his nose and tried to smile. I could tell that he didn’t like it.”
“So, do you think he’s still your friend?” Mei Lai laughed.
“Well, I did let him try a lotus seed moon cake after that, and he ate every bit of it and smacked his lips.”
“I’m glad that you gave him something he likes,” said Mei Lai.
“I did give him one other thing that I hope he likes. I gave him my Book of Mormon.”
“Your Book of Mormon!” exclaimed my sister. “Why did you do that?”
“Well, because it’s the most special thing I could share with a friend,” I answered.
“But how do you expect him to read it?” she said. “He doesn’t even read Chinese.”
I looked at my sister intently. “I don’t know, Mei Lai, but I’m still glad that I gave it to him.”
It was the week before Christmas. Someone knocked at our door, and Mei Lai opened it to blond-haired Jim. My friend didn’t see me sitting in the corner, so he spoke in English to my sister. “I read your book,” he said, holding up a blue book with Chinese characters Book of Mormon engraved on it.
“You read it!” she gasped. “But—but you don’t know Chinese, do you?”
“No. What I meant to say,” Jim explained, “was that my tutor read it to me. He comes every day to teach me Chinese, and so we have been reading it together. In fact, my tutor was wondering if he could get a copy of his own. Also, would it be possible to get a copy in English for my father?”
My sister finally closed her mouth from her astonishment. She smiled, motioning to me.
Jim turned and saw me. “Oh, Sun Ling,” he said in halting Chinese, “this book you gave me is very interesting. I am curious to find out more about it. Can you help me?”
“I’ll be happy to help you,” I replied slowly to make sure that he understood my words. “I can think of no better way to love my neighbor from Australia.”

We had just moved to Maryland. A big semi truck came to our new home to deliver all of our things. My sister and I were outside, playing in the front yard and watching the moving people unload the truck. We listened to them when they said, “Stay on the porch.”
Suddenly our van came crashing out of the truck, and three men were hurt. Mom was really afraid that we were hurt, because one of the moving people came inside to ask her to call 911 and told her that someone had been run over. But we were OK because we were on the porch. The moving people said, “It was a good thing that you listened to us. You could have been hurt really badly.”
I’m glad that I’m obedient. I want to obey Heavenly Father, and I know that I get blessings when I do.Amy Pearson, age 5, and her sister, Rachel, age 3Eldersburg, Maryland

Ruth Rodríguez got to know Emanuel Silva when the two were asked to help organize a combined district young single adult activity in Rio Gallegos, more than 200 miles (320 km) to the north, in February 2006. The friend who asked the two to work together hoped they would hit it off. “It worked,” recalls Emanuel, who had been home two years from serving in the Arizona Tucson Mission.
When he and Ruth married six months later, their preparation—spiritual and temporal—helped them overcome their fear of the future.
“I felt the love of my Father in Heaven and that He wanted me to form my family,” Emanuel says of answers to his prayers. “Once I set that goal, He showed me the way and helped me find a wife.”
Ruth adds that goals they set as a couple, including working hard to save money for their trip to the temple, helped them move forward. “Sometimes there were things we wanted to buy,” she says, “but we said, ‘No, we have to save so we can go to the temple.’”
The cost of their flight to and from the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple in 2006 exhausted their savings. “Afterward we had nothing,” says Emanuel, echoing a common newlywed refrain. Today he and Ruth laugh at that memory, grateful that their faith afforded them the “beautiful experience” of being sealed in the temple—an experience that still means everything to them.
“We can have a lot of fearful feelings as we contemplate marriage,” says Ruth. “What about the things we lack? What about our economic situation? What about raising children? But if we are obedient to the word of the Lord, go to the temple, and start our families, we don’t need to worry. The Lord will bless us in ways we never could have imagined.”

Second only to the importance of being eternal companions is being an earthly parent. Fathers and mothers need to consider their roles in this great responsibility. My children taught me a great lesson many years ago. Our family had moved from California to New York, where I had accepted a position with a new company. We began the process of finding a new home by looking in communities closest to the city. Gradually, however, we moved farther away from the city to find a home in a neighborhood that suited our needs. We found a beautiful home some distance from New York City. It was a one-story house nestled in the lovely deep woods of Connecticut. The final test before purchasing the home was for me to ride the commuter train into New York and check the time and see how long the commute would take. I made the trip and returned quite discouraged. The trip was one and one-half hours each way. I walked into our motel room where our family was waiting for me and presented to my children a choice.

“You can have either this house or a father,” I said. Much to my surprise they responded, “We will take the house. You are never around much anyway.” I was devastated. What my children were telling me was true. I needed to repent fast. My children needed a father who was home more. Eventually we reached a compromise and bought a home closer to the city, with a much shorter commute. I changed my work habits to allow me to have more time with my family.

It was Thanksgiving Day. My mother’s kitchen was comfortably warm from the cooking and was filled with the fragrance of apples, cinnamon, sage dressing, and roasting turkey.
“Smells good,” I said. “When will it be ready?”
“About an hour.” My mother was slicing bananas for a fruit salad.
I reached over and took a piece of banana.
“You can wait.” She looked up and smiled and then handed me a bowl filled with potatoes.
“Peel these and cut them up.”
I sat at the table and started peeling. The potatoes were from our garden and had a sweet, earthy smell.
“Who’s coming?”
“Eric and Tammy.” She took a roll pan from beneath the stove. My mother is famous for her rolls. They are lighter and better tasting than anything you could ever imagine.
“Carol and June.” She hesitated. “Grandma’s coming.”
I looked out the window. It had been raining, but now it had stopped, and the sky was clearing up. There were patches of blue, and the shadows of clouds were drifting silently over the soft brown and gray colors of early winter. A few leaves were still clinging to trees, as if they couldn’t accept the coming winter.
“It’s stopped raining. I didn’t think Grandma was well enough.”
“She’s been a lot better lately, it’s good for her to get out. She doesn’t like being there.”
With a spoon she dropped sticky dough into the pan. When it was filled, she covered it with a cloth.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve seen her, hasn’t it?”
I nodded. It had been a long time, almost two years. They’d put her in the rest home while I was away from home for my first year of college.
“You should have gone to visit her.”
“Why? She wouldn’t even know who I am.”
“She knows,” she said, washing flour from her hands. “She forgets names sometimes, but she still knows who comes to visit her and who doesn’t. And even if she can’t remember anything, you should still go to see her.”
It was an old conversation, and I had known my mother was right the first time we’d had it. I should have gone, but I hadn’t. I had even avoided it. The stories I’d heard—my grandmother fighting with nurses, not recognizing her own children. Somehow the words senile and old didn’t fit my grandmother. She had always been so strong and self-reliant. She never forgot anything. She sent birthday cards to her children and her grandchildren, all 42 of them. She never forgot. I didn’t want to see her changed. I’d always looked up to her.
During the summers, when I was young, I would work with her in her garden. It was one of the largest and best kept in the area. The furrows were all neat and even, and it was filled with almost every vegetable that would grow in our climate and even a few that weren’t supposed to. The outside edge of the garden was surrounded by flowers and berry bushes. I can still see her moving along the furrows, the hoe coming down fast and hard, her head covered with a wide-brimmed straw hat tied down with a red scarf.
That is how I wanted to remember her. I didn’t want to see her any other way.
My mother was taking the turkey from the oven when they arrived. My aunt Carol set pies on the table and then helped my grandmother into the room. Grandma was thinner and paler than I remembered. My mother put her arms around her. Grandma smiled. I thought about leaving the room, but I didn’t. My mother, my aunt, and my sister started setting the table. Grandma was standing near the table. She was looking at me. I tried to look away. My mother was putting the turkey on a platter. They were all talking and laughing. I looked back at grandma. She was still looking at me. I tried to smile. She raised her hand, motioning for me to come to her. The hand was shaking. She reached up and put her hand on my shoulder. She smiled and looked into my eyes. She put her arms around me and hugged me.
“It will be all right,” she said, comforting and counseling me like she’d done a hundred times before.
Her eyes still held the fire they’d always had. They were still strong and full of love. I knew then that what she was inside would never change. The body might grow old and weak, the mind might fail, but the spirit never stops existing.

We have a good many people who have been in the ministry join this church. I had a call last week from a minister who lives in Los Angeles, who served, as he told me, for 20 years as a Baptist minister. Then he met the Mormon elders and they taught him the gospel as it has been restored through the Prophet Joseph Smith, and he gave up his ministry and became a member of the Church. He is now working in the temple there, and he called me to thank me for writing the missionary book that helped him to understand what the Lord has done in restoring his truth to the earth in this dispensation.

I believe in our people’s sense of service. I have been in the missions of the Church where we have some 49,000 missionaries. They are there at their own expense and at the expense of their families. They give to the Lord one and a half to two years of their lives. Their days are long, their weeks crowded and arduous. They speak with a persuasive conviction. They bear testimony of the living Christ and of the virtues of His marvelous work.
May I read from a letter received from one of them: “The most effective technique we have found in our work is fasting and prayer. We saw how this worked a few weeks ago with an investigator of the Church. He had a number of questions and problems to overcome, and we just didn’t seem to get anywhere when we met with him to discuss them. So we would go home to our apartment and ask the Lord to bless him and help him understand what we had explained to him. We felt it was very important that he be baptized, so we asked the Lord to bless him with a desire for baptism. Even up through the sixth lesson he was wavering, so we fasted the day before his baptism, and he has been a faithful member ever since.”
One thinks of the words of the Lord to His disciples who complained they could not perform miracles. Said He: “This kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting” (Matt. 17:21).
Is it not a miracle in itself that in this day of doubt and disbelief young people, thousands of them, with lives to live and careers to build, spend a year and a half to two years in the service of the Lord, laboring constantly and even willing to fast and pray in behalf of those to whom they seek to teach a better life? I know of no experience more refreshing than to be with them and feel of their spirit. They will restore your faith in youth. They will quicken your faith in the Lord.

Joseph Larsen, a fine stake president in Illinois, was injured while serving his country. The accident left him without the use of his legs, confined to a wheelchair. But he, with the help of his lovely wife, went on to finish his education, and he is now a dean at the University of Illinois. He is a spiritual giant among the brothers and sisters of his stake. The capacity to learn did no end when his ability to walk ended. He kept going.

A few years ago in Italy, LDS missionaries were harassed by some Italian youths. Among the group on two occasions was a young man named Felice Lotito. He was challenged by a bold elder to come to the local LDS branch so that he could judge for himself. It was a dare which Felice accepted. He came. He heard. He studied. He believed. He was baptized. Later he was sent on a mission to England where he increased his faith and his facility with English. He served honorably, came home, married a lovely Italian girl in the Swiss Temple, and became one of the directors of the seminary and institute program in Italy, which now serves nearly 1,000 students.

In July of 1980, Felice Lotito left at age 32 to be the mission president in the Italy Padova Mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints! God saw in Felice possibilities that Felice did not see in himself. When the gospel was presented to him, Felice had the integrity of heart and intellect to believe it, even though he had been hassling the missionaries just days before. The Lord reached out for Felice Lotito who will now reach out to thousands of his countrymen and touch hundreds of missionaries—missionaries like those of whom he was so critical just a few years before.

I have been inspired by Moroni’s courage because of the many trials the world has seen this year, including the COVID-19 pandemic. Many of us around the world were forced into social isolation this year, some of us needing to separate ourselves from the people we love most. I too had to make that difficult decision.
I am a pediatric doctor, and I work on the front lines to give children urgent and emergency care in Maranhão, Brazil. During this pandemic, I made the difficult decision to avoid close physical contact with my beloved husband, two-year-old daughter, mother-in-law, and nephews (who all live in my home), along with all my other family and friends elsewhere. I isolated myself to avoid possibly transmitting the disease.
Social isolation was difficult because my family is so close. Every Sunday we get together for lunch. We also have regular family nights. I soon discovered that without them, I felt sad and lonely. However, I decided to spend a lot of time reading the Book of Mormon to invite the Spirit into my life. I learned that having the Holy Ghost as my constant companion helps me focus on gratitude and goodness, shows me how to serve others, and surrounds me with the Savior’s love during difficult times.
Sometimes I wonder how comforting it must have been for Moroni to read the words of his father, Mormon, after he was gone. I tried to apply his words to me: “Be faithful in Christ [my daughter]; ... may Christ lift thee up” (Moroni 9:25). I’ve learned that He always will! The Savior can give us power that is greater than all the problems we may face in this troubled world and help us hold on to hope.
As hard as this year has been, I am so grateful this experience has strengthened my testimony of Jesus Christ and taught me to place my total trust in Him as Moroni did. As I read the account of Jesus Christ in the Americas, I realized that before His arrival, the land of the Nephites was undergoing great and wonderful transformations (see 3 Nephi 11:1). Certainly, before the Savior returns, we will be able to go through our own transformation, preparing ourselves to meet Him again. I know that all the challenges we are experiencing all give us the opportunity to help us prepare to meet Him.
I know that Jesus Christ is my Savior. He is the light that I need to guide me when the way is uncertain. And I know that the Book of Mormon is a testament of Him. The truths found in that book can truly help us turn to Him and to have strength and courage and faith in times of crisis. I know it has for me.

Two days after Christmas in 1992, at the relatively young age of 64, my father was admitted to the hospital with a mild case of pneumonia. His doctor was a little concerned as Dad was also jaundiced, with no obvious reason why. Tests revealed nothing conclusive. However, the pneumonia symptoms were decreasing, and we all felt Dad was on the mend.

My mother requested that my father receive a priesthood blessing. A close long-time friend of my parents sealed the anointing with a wonderful blessing during which my father was told he would be healed.

The next morning, a nurse visited my father and asked what he would like for breakfast. When she returned a few minutes later, she discovered that Dad had gotten out of bed and made his way to the window, where he slumped to the floor and died.

How did that happen? My father had a priesthood blessing. He was promised he would be healed. We had faith and believed he would be healed. Where was our miracle? My dad, who always tried to be his best at whatever he was doing, had died anyway.

Many people observe miracles in their lives and the lives of loved ones, and their faith and testimony are strengthened by what they see. I believe those who fundamentally base their testimony on observed events face a potentially serious problem.

A testimony must be based on more than miracles, because the miracle you want is not always the one you get.

As a junior at Washington-Lee High School in Arlington, Virginia, Karen was quite put out (furious is more accurate) to find a snide portrayal of the Prophet Joseph and the Church in her history book. It described Joseph Smith as a transient farmer digging for buried treasure. She pointed out the inaccuracies to her teacher who turned the tables by asking if she would like to give a class presentation on early Church history. Karen gulped and accepted. Out came the fifth-grade report. Spruced up with the addition of the Joseph Smith story and a few other gems, it was just the thing. It ended up taking the whole class period. The teacher promptly asked Karen for a repeat performance in his afternoon class. There were dozens of thoughtful questions which led to the missionaries being invited to explain more.

Mark Johnson is a young man striving to fulfill his duties as a deacon. But at times, it’s a struggle. Seven years ago doctors discovered that Mark had muscular dystrophy; Mark was given just two years of mobility. But he set a high goal for himself—he wanted to pass the sacrament when he was ordained a deacon. It seemed impossible, especially after Mark was forced into a wheelchair. But because of his undying desire to render service, Mark has found a way to fulfill his duties. His father, Lee Johnson, carries Mark in his arms every Sunday as Mark passes the bread and water.
In addition to deacon’s duties, Mark is earnestly pursuing the Eagle Scout rank. As a member of Troop 101 of the Ventura First Ward in California, he is a Life Scout and is working on the two remaining merit badges left to fill the Eagle requirements. Some of the badges have not come easy; take, for example, hiking, camping, swimming. But he claims his hardest merit badge was music.
Mark’s troop helps him every chance they get. They alternate backpacking with car camping so Mark can participate. He has a special friend in Ricky Johnson who pushes the wheelchair up the trail and through the streambeds on the walk-in camps.
Mark lives close to the Lord, and his diligence is an inspiration to others. He has been helped by many, but when asked how he has achieved his goals, his answer is, “My dad and I do it together.”

Three months passed before doctors diagnosed his problem—a rare neurological condition. By then it was too late for him to return to the mission field, but he didn’t stop being a missionary. After eight years of friendship with Daniel, Kristen finally agreed to learn about the gospel. She hadn’t believed in Christ—until Daniel began teaching her. Then I knew I was witnessing another miracle.
Two weeks before Daniel had originally been scheduled to come home, Kristen was baptized. Daniel’s most difficult trial had turned into a precious blessing.

At the end of January 1831, Joseph and Emma Smith traveled to Ohio from New York in a horse-drawn sleigh. It was very cold, and Emma was expecting a baby. They arrived safely in front of Newel K. Whitney’s store in Kirtland during the first part of February. As they stopped, the prophet sprang from the sleigh, entered the store, and approached Brother Whitney, whom he had never met before. “Newel K. Whitney!” he declared, extending his hand to shake. “Thou art the man.” “You have the advantage of me,” replied Brother Whitney. “I could not call you by name as you have me.” “I am Joseph the Prophet. You prayed me here, now what do you want of me?” Joseph then explained that while he was still in New York he had seen Brother Whitney in a vision, praying for him to come to Kirtland. With great joy, the Whitneys made room in their home for the Smiths until they could find another place to live.

by Spencer Garvey
What Christmas activity do you look forward to most? The Christmas caroling party? The family Christmas dinner? Seeing your mom open the Christmas present you’ve been slaving over for months?
The youth in the Orem 15th Ward, Orem Utah Sharon West Stake, have a unique activity that they think tops all others. It combines the joy of giving with the beauty of service, and capsulizes the message the Savior brought to earth. All by themselves, the youth throw a Christmas party for the mentally handicapped adults in the ward.
Within the ward boundaries are two group homes, sponsored by the American Fork Training School. Residents of the homes, one for women and one for men, have reached a certain level of achievement, and are free to go to church and participate in ward activities. Their favorite activity by far is the annual Christmas party, and they anticipate it for months.
The youth go all out to make it an exciting experience for their special guests. Each class takes charge of one aspect of the evening, from festively decking the cultural hall, to setting up chairs, to planning games and making sure each person from the group homes receives a gift. They buy things that the guests of honor have requested like slippers, books, dominoes, and tapes.
But the preparation is only half the fun. The real excitement starts when the guests arrive, and smiles light their faces brighter than any bulbs on the Christmas tree. The youth in the ward get busy mingling and making sure that nobody stands alone.
“It’s worth it to see their smiles,” said Becky Lant, 16, who was in charge of the affair. “This helps us learn the happiness you get from serving others, and helps us learn to love those we serve.”
Soon everyone becomes involved in a game. The guests joyfully bowl plastic pop bottles over with a basketball. With delighted energy, they throw a soft football through a tire suspended from a basketball standard. The youth are quick to make sure that everyone feels like a winner, even in musical chairs.
“They always come to our basketball or volleyball games and support us,” says Jeff Nelson, 16. “This is the least we can do for them in return. They’re special, they’re nice, and they deserve it.”
But at no time is the Christmas spirit so evident as when everyone in the group sits down together, arms intertwined, and starts singing Christmas carols. As they sing about the wonders of the birth of Christ, the youth and the guests seem to exchange intangible gifts of friendship and caring with each other and with the Savior at the same time.
Later Santa comes bounding in with a bag full of presents. But the gift the guests enjoy most isn’t in the bag. It’s a videotape of the festivities so they can relive them over and over in the coming months.
Soon the party is over, the hugs are hugged, tears of happiness mingle, and Santa leads the way out. His parting cry hangs in the air for all to savor and confirm. “Merry Christmas to all,” he chuckles, “and to all a good night!”

This past September she spoke in the General Relief Society meeting for the women of the Church. She talked about the refining process in her life. She was in her mid thirties and had four young children when she received her patriartical blessing. The blessing the patriarch gave emphasized missionary work over and over again. She felt overwhelmed with the thought of being a missionary. She had barely read the Book of Mormon once herself and felt inadequate to teach others about the gospel. When her patriarchal blessing came, she tucked it away carefully in a drawer. Over the years that followed, she and her husband focused on preparing their children to serve missions. After sending her sons to many lands on missions, she believed she had completed her missionary duty.

Then her husband was called to be the Mission President in Nigeria. With this calling came many questions and concerns for her. She was worried about going over 10,000 miles away from home, leaving both her married and unmarried children and her aging father and mother-in-law behind. What would they eat while they were there? Would they be safe in a country that was politically unstable and dangerous? She felt inadequate on every level. It is interesting to note what she did to increase her faith in the Lord Jesus Christ

Her prayers became constant and fervent. She redoubled her efforts to attend the temple. She searched the scriptures, fasted and prayed, and all the while tried to live faithful to the covenants that she had made. The next thing she had to do was to step out into the darkness. In order to do this, she realized that she needed to rely completely on the Lord and seek for personal revelation. And finally, she had to submit her will to the Lord’s in order to receive His help, His guidance, and His protection.

As I listened to her speak, I was reminded of an earlier talk that she had given. She and her husband, while serving in Nigeria, had traveled to a remote location in their mission so he could conduct temple recommend interviews with the members in that area. Some of these members had been in the Church for less than two years. All of the members lived 3,000 miles away from the nearest temple in Johannesburg, South Africa. None had received their temple endowment.

The members all knew the appointed day that President and Sister Pingree would come, but no one knew the exact hour they would arrive. There was no way to call ahead since telephones were rare in that part of West Africa. So these committed Saints gathered early in the morning to wait all day, if necessary, for their temple recommend interviews. When the Pingree’s arrived, they noticed two Relief Society sisters waiting among the rest of the group.

After many hours, all of the temple recommend interviews were completed. The Pingree’s began the drive back along the sandy jungle trail and were stunned when they saw these two sisters still walking. They realized they had trekked from their village, a distance of 18 miles round trip, just to obtain a temple recommend they knew they would never have the privilege of using.

These Nigerian Sisters believed the counsel of President Howard W. Hunter who said, “It would please the Lord for every adult member to be worthy of and to carry a current temple recommend, even if proximity to a temple does not allow immediate or frequent use of it.” Sister Pingree concluded, “In her hand, carefully wrapped in a clean handkerchief, each sister carried her precious temple recommend. I carry their examples of faith carefully wrapped in my heart.” These sisters truly exhibited faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Surely this experience and many others like it strengthened Sister Pingree’s faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.

My wife, Carmen, and I just had our first child when I was called to be the bishop of our ward. At the time, we struggled financially. It became stressful for me to provide for my family and at the same time watch over and care for the members of our ward.
One Sunday, I noticed a single mother with her four little children in sacrament meeting. She sat on the last bench in the chapel and tried her best to keep her children quiet. I knew she was struggling financially as well, but she never asked for help. Weeks passed, and every Sunday she came to church with her children.
One day, I received my paycheck. Blessed to receive a bonus, I decided to use the extra money to purchase supplies for much-needed repairs on my house. But while I was heading to the market, this sister and her children came to my mind. I felt I should use the extra money to buy food for them. I called Carmen and told her what I felt I needed to do. She agreed.
As I shopped, my eyes fell on some cookies. I thought that maybe the children would like some sweets. I filled two bags with food and made my way to this sister’s house.
I knocked on the worn wooden door several times. When I was about to leave, the door finally opened. “Bishop,” the sister said, “I am surprised to see you here.” Instantly, her children ran out from behind her.
“I brought you some food,” I said.
One of her daughters found the cookies and shouted, “Cookies!” Her brothers and sisters excitedly gathered around. A seven-year-old daughter hugged me. “Thank you, Bishop!” she said.
I looked inside their home and saw that this sister had been washing clothes in a pan on the floor. The family had no table and slept on a mattress on the floor. I realized how much they were in need. I made arrangements to make sure they would have a table and that each would have a bed.
This experience helped me to recognize that the Lord guides and blesses His servants. We do not need a special calling in order to help our brothers and sisters. We just need to be in tune with the Spirit, recognize who needs our help, and be willing to be instruments in the Lord’s hands.

After working in department stores selling men’s clothing for several years, I became quite proficient at coordinating shirts and ties with the suits I sold. It was rewarding to pick the perfect assortment, and my customers were usually pleased with the choices I presented them.
However, in one particular store, the suits were in an area illuminated with fluorescent lighting while the shirts and ties were displayed in another area under incandescent bulbs. This difference in lighting proved to be quite challenging.
It often happened that after a customer had decided upon a suit or two, I’d go select an array of shirts and ties that I thought would work well. But once the shirts and ties were moved from one section to the other and placed next to the suits, the result was surprising—the colors “changed” in the new light and did not match at all.
Taking a suit to the area that displayed the shirts and ties worked better. But even with this approach, customers often became confused, noticing that the suits we had in hand didn’t look like the ones they had just selected. A suit that looked olive green under the fluorescent lighting now appeared gray, taupe, or brown when viewed under incandescent lights. Black, charcoal, and navy suits underwent similar transformations.
More often than not, I had to solve the problem by taking customers out a nearby door to look at their selections in the daylight. By seeing with the light of the sun, we could quickly discern true colors and make appropriate choices.